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•BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 
©Itmpscs  Of  /iRoOccn  ©etman 

Culfutc.  New  York:  Dodd,  Mead  & Co. 
1898. 


A HISTORY 


OF 

GERMAN  LiTERATURE 

AS  DETERMINED  BY  SOCIAL  FORCES 


KUNO  FRANCKE,  Ph.D. 

Pwfessor  0/  German  Literature  in  Harvard  University 


SEVENTH  IMPRESSION 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1896,  1901, 

BY 


HENRY  HOLT  & CO. 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


f H A 

V 


ZTTetncn  Iteben  ®efc^tt)tftern  in 
Deutfc^Ianb,  ber  Sd)xx>d^ 
unb  HTcfico 

tDtbme  ic^  biefe  Blatter  als  etnen 
fci)r£>ac^en  2tusbrucf  uncerbriidjltd^er 
Creue  unb  2tnl?dnglt<^feit  an  unfer 
gemeinfames  Baterlanb. 


Die  Litteraturen,  scheint  es  mir,  haben  Jahreszeiten,  die, 
miteinander  abwechselnd,  wie  in  der  Natur,  gewisse  Phanomene 
hervorbringen  und  sich  der  Reihe  nach  wiederholen. 

Goethe,  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  III,  12. 

Die  Gedanken  kommen  wieder,  die  Ueberzeugungen  pflanzen 
sich  fort,  die  Zustande  gehen  unwiederbringlich  voruber. 

Goethe,  Maximen  und  Reflexionen  III. 

— und  so  oft  im  erneuenden  Umschwung 
In  verjiingter  Gestalt  aufstrebte  die  Welt, 

Klang  auch  ein  germanisches  Lied  nach. 

Platen,  Der  Romantische  Oedipus  V, 


PREFACE. 


The  following  attempt  to  define  what  seem  to  me  the 
essential  features  of  German  literature  is  made  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  student  of  civilization  rather  than  from 
that  of  the  linguistic  scholar  or  the  literary  critic. 

My  own  university  studies  under  such  men  as  Giesebrecht, 
Brunn,  Erwin  Rohde,  Paulsen;  my  subsequent  work  under 
Georg  VVaitz;  and  the  part  taken  by  me  in  editing  for  the 
Monumenta  GermanicE  Historica  the  controversial  writings 
of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries — all  this  has  naturally 
led  me  to  look  at  the  substance  rather  than  the  form  of 
literature,  to  see  in  literature  primarily  the  working  of  popu- 
lar forces,  to  consider  it  chiefly  as  an  expression  of  national 
culture. 

To  this  personal  bias  there  was  added  the  consideration 
that,  while  there  is  no  lack  of  works  dealing  with  the  his- 
tory of  German  literature  from  the  linguistic  or  the  literary 
point  of  view,  there  seems  to  be  a decided  need  of  a book 
which,  based  upon  an  original  study  of  the  sources,  should 
give  a coherent  account  of  the  great  intellectual  movements 
of  German  life  as  expressed  in  literature;  which  should 
point  out  the  mutual  relation  of  action  and  reaction  between 
these  movements  and  the  social  and  political  condition  of 
the  masses  from  which  they  sprang  or  which  they  affected; 


VI 


PREFACE. 


which,  in  short,  should  trace  the  history  of  the  German 
people  in  the  works  of  its  thinkers  and  poets. 

No  one  could  feel  more  clearly  than  I how  far  the 
present  essay  falls  short  of  achieving  what  is  implied  in  the 
foregoing  remarks.  All  that  I wish  to  claim  is  that  this  is 
an  honest  attempt,  to  analyze  the  social,  religious,  and 
moral  forces  which  determined  the  growth  of  German  litera- 
ture as  a whole.  And  all  that  I can  hope  is  that  the  very 
distance  which  separates  me  from  the  country  of  my  birth 
may  have  helped  me  to  see  at  least  some  of  its  intellectual 
mountain-peaks  as  they  tower  up  in  clear  outline  above  the 
dark  stretch  of  the  hills  and  the  lowlands. 

As  to  the  fundamental  principles  which  have  shaped  my 
conception  of  German  literature,  I may  here  say  this.  It 
seems  to  me  that  all  literary  development  is  determined  by 
the  incessant  conflict  of  two  elemental  human  tendencies: 
the  tendency  toward  personal  freedom  and  the  tendency 
toward  collective  organization.  The  former  leads  to  the 
observation  and  representation  of  whatever  is  striking, 
genuine,  individual;  in  short,  to  realism.  The  latter  leads 
to  the  observation  and  representation  of  whatever  is  beauti- 
ful, significant,  universal;  in  short,  to  idealism.  The  indi- 
vidualistic tendency,  if  unchecked,  may  lead  either  to  a 
vulgar  naturalism  or  to  a fantastic  mysticism.  The  col- 
lectivistic  tendency,  if  unchecked,  may  lead  to  an  empty 
conventionalism.  Those  ages  and  those  men  in  whom  the 
individualistic  and  the  collectivistic  tendencies  are  evenly 
balanced,  produce  the  works  of  literature  which  are  truly 
great. 

Should  this  book  reach  the  shores  of  Germany,  let  it 
greet  from  me  all  the  dear  old  places  and  faces;  especially 
three  friends  and  associates  of  youthful  days,  the  thought 
of  whom  was  constantly  with  me  while  writing  it:  Friedrich 
Reuter,  professor  at  the  Altona  ‘ Christianeum  *;  Friedrich 
Paulsen,  professor  at  the  University  of  Berlin;  Ferdinand 
Tonnies,  professor  at  the  University  of  Kiel.  I should  be 


PREFACE. 


vii 


happy  if  they  were  to  find  here  a not  altogether  unworthy 
expression  of  the  ideals  which  were  the  bond  of  our  friend- 
ship in  years  gone  by. 

To  my  American  friends  and  colleagues,  Ephraim  Emer- 
ton  and  G.  L.  Kittredge,  I am  indebted  for  a careful  re- 
vision of  the  language  of  the  book.  But  in  spite  of  this 
kind  service,  for  which  I wish  here  to  express  my  sincerest 
gratitude,  its  style  will  easily  betray  the  foreigner. 


Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A.. 
December  i,  1895. 


Kuno  Francke. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


In  sending  the  second  edition  of  this  book  to  press,  I 
cannot  withhold  the  wish  that  it  might  have  been  possible 
for  me  to  make  a more  extensive  use  of  the  suggestions 
offered  in  so  friendly  a spirit  by  not  a few  of  my  reviewers. 
But  inasmuch  as  some  at  least  of  these  changes  would  in- 
volve the  rewriting  of  considerable  portions  of  the  book,  I 
shall  have  to  leave  this  task  to  some  future  opportunity. 
A few  slight  changes,  however,  have  been  made  and  typo- 
graphical errors  have  been  corrected. 

K.  F. 

January  3,  1897. 


In  the  third  edition,  also,  only  a few  minor  corrections 
have  been  made. 


March  23,  1899, 


K.  F. 


NOTE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 


At  the  suggestion  of  my  publishers,  the  fourth  American 
edition  of  “ Social  Forces  in  German  Literature''  appears 
under  a different  title.  I have  assented  to  this  change 
partly  in  order  to  secure  uniformity  of  title  with  the  first 
English  edition  which  is  to  be  brought  out  simultaneously 
by  Messrs.  George  Bell  & Sons,  partly  because  the  present 
title  indicates  more  clearly  than  the  former  the  fact  that 
this  book  attempts  to  give  a comprehensive  account  of  the 
development  of  German  literature  as  a whole. 

In  substance  the  only  change  made  in  this  edition  is  a 
somewhat  fuller  treatment  of  the  contemporary  German 
drama.  Part  of  the  new  matter  is  reprinted — with  the  kind 
consent  of  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  & Co. — from  my  Glimpses 
of  Modern  German  Culture." 


February,  27,  1901. 


K.  F. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

PAGB 

The  Epochs  of  German  Culture 3 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 

(From  the  Fifth  to  the  Ninth  Century.) 

The  disintegrating  effect  of  the  Migrations  upon  public 
morality.  — The  Germanic  Epic.  The  historical  and 
mythical  elements  of  the  different  sagas. — Leading  char- 
acters of  the  Dietrich-,  Wolfdietrich-,  Walthari-,  Gudrun-, 
and  Nibelung-sagas.  7 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  GROWTH  OF  MEDIMVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM. 
(From  the  Ninth  to  the  Middle  of  the  Twelfth  Century.) 

The  conflict,  in  mediaeval  life,  between  church  and  state;  and 
the  corresponding  conflict,  in  mediaeval  literature,  be- 
tween the  spiritual  and  the  worldly. — Heljand.  Otfrid’s 
Harmony  of  the  Gospels. — Liudprand  of  Cremona. 
Ecbasis  Captivi.  Rosvitha.  Ruodlieb.  Kdnig  Rother. 
Herzog  Ernst.  Rolandslied.  Alexanderlied 34 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE. 

(From  the  Middle  of  the  Twelfth  to  the  Middle  of  the  Thirteenth  Century.) 

The  approach,  in  the  aristocratic  society  of  the  Hohenstaufen 
epoch,  toward  a reconciliation  between  the  spiritual  and 

ix 


X 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


the  worldly. — Minnesong:  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide. 

— Revival  of  the  ancient  Germanic  Epic  : Nibelungenlied. 
Gudrun. — The  Court  Epic:  Hartmann  von  Aue.  Wolfram 
von  Eschenbach.  Gottfried  von  Strassburg.. 63 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 

(From  the  Middle  of  the  Thirteenth  to  the  Sixteenth  Century.) 

Growth  of  territorial  sovereignty  and  municipal  independ- 
ence.— The  beginnings  of  modern  individualism. — The 
Mystic  Movement:  Berthold  von  Regensburg.  Eckhart. 
Suso.  Tauler. — The  Volkslied. — Didactic  and  satirical 
narrative:  Der  Pfaffe  Amis.  Meier  Helmbrecht.  Hugo 
von  Trimberg’s  Renner.  Boner’s  Edelstein.  Sebastian 
Brant.  Reinkede  Vos.  Thomas  Murner.  Till  Eulen- 
spiegel. — The  religious  drama:  Ludus  de  Antichristo. 
Wiener  Osterspiel.  Alsfelder  Passionsspiel.  Hessisches 
Weihnachtspiel.  Redentiner  Osterspiel.  — The  Fast- 
nachtspiel 100 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  ERA  OF  THE  RE  FORM  A TION. 

(The  Sixteenth  Century.) 

The  democratic  movement  of  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 
century. — Humanism:  Erasmus’s  Moriae  Encomium  and 
Enchiridion  Militis  Christiani.  Hutten’s  Dialogues  and 
other  anti-Roman  writings.  — Luther’s  revolutionary 
pamphlets  of  1520. — The  turning-point  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. Luther’s  return  to  authority. — The  effect  of  the  re- 
action upon  literature.  Hans  Sachs.  Johann  Fischart. 

The  Faust-book  of  1587 139 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM  AND  THE 
BEGINNINGS  OF  MODERN  LIFE. 

(The  Seventeenth  and  the  First  Half  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.) 

I.  The  Recovery  FROM  THE  Thirty  Years’ War.  The  growth 

of  Prussia. — Pietism  and  Rationalism.  Leibniz 172 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


xi 


PAGE 

2 Pseudo-classicism.  Opitz.  Gottsched.  The  literature 


of  gallantry 178 

3.  The  Individualistic  Undercurrent  of  Seventeenth- 

century  Literature.  Religious  poetry:  Fleming. 

Gerhardt.  Spee.  Schefiler. — Satire  and  novel:  Logau. 
Moscherosch.  Grimmelshausen.  — Comedy:  Gryphius. 

Weise 187 

4.  The  Sentimentalism  and  Rationalism  of  the  First 

Half  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  Gunther.  Brockes. 
Haller.  The  Anacreonticists.  Gellert 213 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  A HD  THE  HEIGHT 


OF  ENLIGHTENMENT. 

(The  Third  Quarter  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.) 

E.  The  Enlightened  Absolutism.  The  conflict  between 
Frederick’s  intellectual  convictions  and  political  methods. 

Its  effect  on  modern  German  culture 228 

2.  Klopstock.  His  spirituality.  His  poetic  quality  as  ex- 

emplified in  the  Messias.  His  patriotism.  His  cosmo- 
politanism  233 

3.  WiELAND.  His  ideal  of  culture  as  shown  in  Agathon.  His 

position  as  literary  interpreter  of  the  rationalistic  phi- 
losophy  251 


4.  Lessing.  The  destruction  of  Gottschedianism. — The  re- 
discovery of  classic  antiquity:  Winckelmann.  Laokoon. 
Hamburgische  Dramaturgic. — The  creation  of  a national 
drama:  Tellheim  and  Odoardo  as  its  types. — The  positive 
and  the  rational  religion:  Anti-Goeze.  Nathan.  Die 
Erziehung  des  Menschengeschlechts. — Frederick’s  De  la 
Litt^rature  Allemande 2< 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  AND  THE  CLIMAX  OF 
INDI  VIDUA  LISM. 

(The  End  of  the  Eighteenth  and  the  Beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.) 

I.  The  Storm-and-Stress  Movement.  Its  revolutionary 
tendencies:  Lenz.  H.  L.  Wagner.  Klinger.  Schubart. 
Maler  Muller,  Fr.  Stolberg.  Burger.  Heinse.— Con- 


XU 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


servative  influences:  Justus  Moeser. — The  outcome  of 

the  movement / 301 

II.  The  Classics  of  Individualism. 

1.  Herder.  The  idea  of  organic  development.  Literature 

as  an  index  of  national  culture.  The  apotheosis  of 
humanity 318 

2.  Kant.  The  Pure  Reason.  The  Moral  Law.  Latent 

Pantheism. — The  new  Humanism:  Wilhelm  von  Hum- 
boldt  328 

3.  Goethe  and  Schiller.  Their  part  in  the  Storm-and-Stress 
movement:  Goetz.  Werther.  Faust.  Egmont.  Die 
Rauber.  Kabale  und  Liebe.  Don  Carlos. — Goethe’s 


maturity:  Lyrics  and  Ballads.  Iphigenie.  Tasso.  Wil- 
helm Meister.  Hermann  und  Dorothea.  The  second 
conception  of  Faust.  — Schiller’s  maturity:  .Esthetic 

prose  writings.  Lyrics  and  ballads.  Wallenstein.  Maria 
Stuart.  Jungfrau  von  Orleans.  Braut  von  Messina, 
Tell, — Goethe  and  Schiller  as  public  characters 335 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  ERA  OF  NA  TIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  AND  THE 
GROWTH  OF  THE  COLLECT/ FIS  TIC  IDEAL. 

(From  the  Beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  to  the  Revolution  of  1848.) 


I.  The  Transition  from  Classicism  to  Romanticism.  Jean 

Paul.  His  sense  of  the  unity  of  life.  His  greatness  as 
landscape-painter;  as  genre-painter;  as  humorist.  His 
excessive  individualism.  His  capriciousness.  His  lack 
of  form 399 

II.  The  Disintegration  OF  Classicism.  Early  Romanticism 

a caricature  of  Classicism.  Tieck’s  William  Lovell. 
Friedrich  Schlegel’s  Lucinde.  Novalis 412 


III.  The  Regeneration  of  the  German  People  and  the 
Wars  of  Liberation. 

1.  Pantheism  and  Socialism.  Schleiermacher’s  Reden  iiber 

die  Religion  and  Monologen.  Fichte’s  Grundziige  des 
gegenwartigen  Zeitalters  and  Reden  an  die  deutsche 
Nation 428 

2.  The  Renaissance  of  the  German  Past.  Holderlin.  Wack- 
enroder.  Novalis’s  Geistliche  Lieder.  Tieck  and  his 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


PAGE 

followers.  August  Wilhelm  Schlegel.  Des  Knaben 

Wunderhorn.  Gorres.  The  brothers  Grimm 444 

3,  The  New  Poetry  and  the  National  Uprising,  Kleist:  Der 
zerbrochene  Krug.  Penthesilea.  Kathchen  von  Heil- 
bronn.  Kohlhaas.  Hermannsschlacht.  Katechismus 
der  Deutschen.  Prinz  von  Homburg.  — Uhland. — The 

war  of  1813.  Kdrner.  Arndt 467 

IV.  The  Age  of  the  Restoration. 

1.  The  Effect  of  the  Political  Reaction  upon  Literature. 

Grillparzer.  Riickert.  Schopenhauer.  Lenau.  Platen. 

Immermann.  Borne.  Heine 495 

2.  The  Victory  of  Liberalism.  Goethe’s  old  age.  Wilhelm 
Meisters  Wanderjahre  and  the  Second  Part  of  Faust. 
Hegel.  Rechtsphilosophie  and  Philosophic  der  Ge- 
schichte.  The  development  from  1830  to  the  Revolution 

of  1848 527 

EPILOGUE. 

Richard  Wagner.  The  Contemporary  Drama- 548 

Index 581 


LIST  OF  ABBREVIATIONS, 


GdgPh.  = Grundriss  der  germanischen  Philologie,  herausgege- 
ben  von  H.  Paul.  Strassburg,  1891-93. 

GG.  = K.  Goedeke,  Grundriss  zur  Geschichte  der  deutschen 
Dichtung.  Zweite  Aufl.,  Hannover  (Dresden), 
1884-91. 


MSD.  = Mullenhoff  und  Scherer,  Denkmaler  deutscher  Poesie 
und  Prosa  aus  dem  8.-12.  Jahrhundert.  Dritte 
Aufl.,  Berlin,  1892. 

DN'L.  = Deutsche  National-Litteratur,  herausgegeben  von 
Joseph  Kiirschner.  Berlin  und  Stuttgart. 

NddLw*  = Neudrucke  deutscher  Litteraturwerke  des  16.  und  17. 

Jahrhunderts,  herausgegeben  von  W.  Braune. 
Halle,  1882  ff. 


= Deutsche  Litteraturdenkmale  des  18.  (und  19.)  Jahr- 
hunderts, herausgegeben  von  B.  Seuffert  (und  A. 
Sauer).  Heilbronn  (Stuttgart),  1882  ff. 


DLD. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  EPOCHS  OF  GERMAN  CULTURE. 

The  fundamental  conception  which  underlies  the  follow- 
ing account  of  the  development  of  German  literature  is  that 
of  a continual  struggle  between  individualistic  and  collec- 
tivistic  tendencies,  between  man  and  society,  between  per- 
sonality and  tradition,  between  liberty  and  unity,  between 
cosmopolitanism  and  nationality, — a struggle  which  maybe 
said  to  be  the  prime  motive  power  of  all  human  progress. 

The  first  appearance  of  Germanic  tribes  in  the  foreground 
of  European  history,  the  influx  of  the  Northern  barbarians 
into  the  decaying  civilization  of  the  Roman  empire,  is 
marked  by  a dissolution  of  all  social  bonds.  Severed  from 
their  native  soil,  thrust  into  a world  in  which  their  ancestral 
faith,  customs,  institutions  have  no  authority,  the  Teutons 
of  the  era  of  the  Migrations  experience  for  the  first  time  on 
a grand  scale  the  conflict  between  universal  law  and  indi- 
vidual passion.  The  Germanic  epic  with  its  colossal  types 
of  heroic  devotion,  greed,  and  guilt,  is  the  poetic  embodi- 
ment of  this  tragic  conflict. 

Out  of  the  bloody  tumult  of  the  Migration  epoch  there 
rise  gradually,  from  the  ninth  century  on,  the  outlines  of  a 
new  social  order.  The  Carolingian  monarchy,  a gigantic 
attempt  to  unite  the  whole  continent  under  Germanic 
rule,  soon  gives  way  to  more  limited  and  more  natural 
political  combinations;  and  by  the  middle  of  the  tenth 
century  we  see  for  the  first  time  a distinctly  German 
state  holding  its  place  among,  or  rather  above,  a variety  of 

3 


4 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Other  nationalities.  At  the  same  time,  the  papacy,  as  the 
representative  both  of  the  Christian  ideal  of  cosmopolitan- 
ism and  of  the  Roman  claim  to  world-dominion,  extends  its 
centralizing  influence  over  the  whole  Occident,  thus  creat- 
ing a new  international  bond  of  spiritual  relationship.  In 
the  fierce  and  prolonged  struggles  which,  with  alternating 
success,  are  waged  between  empire  and  papacy,  the  intellec- 
tual life  of  feudal  society  reaches  its  first  climax.  Under 
the  influence  of  all  these  contrasting  tendencies  there  grows 
up  a literature  which,  though  controlled  exclusively  by 
ecclesiastics,  oscillates  for  a long  time  between  a drastic  rep- 
resentation of  every-day  reality,  and  ideal  images  of  the 
inner  life;  until  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century, 
simultaneously  with  the  heightening  of  the  whole  national 
existence  brought  about  by  the  crusades,  attempts  are  made 
to  depict  human  nature  in  its  fulness. 

The  end  of  the  twelfth  century  and  the  beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  show  mediaeval  society  at  its  height.  The 
struggle  between  empire  and  papacy  now  assumes  its  grand- 
est proportions  and  brings  forth  the  most  striking  mani- 
festations of  collective  consciousness.  The  aristocratic 
principles  of  chivalry  have  been  fully  established,  and  are 
accepted  as  the  foundation  of  public  life.  Allegiance  to  the 
feudal  lord,  to  the  church,  to  the  chosen  lady;  a decorous  be- 
haviour, courtliness  of  speech  and  bearing,  valour,  readiness 
for  service,  self-possession,  gentleness,  magnanimity,  mode- 
ration; the  whole  galaxy  of  virtues  suggested  by  the  one 
word  diu  maze  (measure): — these  are  the  duties  magnified  by 
an  age  whose  social  etiquette  seems  to  bring  back  in  a new 
form  the  Greek  ideal  of  KaXoKaya'Qia.  In  the  Minnesong; 
in  the  rejuvenated  and  transformed  Germanic  epic  of  the 
Migration  period;  in  the  adaptation,  through  the  medium 
of  the  French,  of  Celtic  and  Grasco-Roman  epic  traditions; 
the  chivalric  ideal  receives  its  supreme  poetic  expression. 
At  the  same  time,  however,  there  is  seen  in  the  finest  repre- 
sentatives of  chivalric  culture — in  Walther  von  der  Vogel- 


THE  EPOCHS  OF  GERMAN  CULTURE. 


5 


weide,  Hartmann  von  Aue,  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach, 
Gottfried  von  Strassburg — an  instinctive  reaching  out  be- 
yond the  limits  of  this  culture,  a divinatory  anticipation  of 
a new  social  order. 

The  beginnings  of  this  new  order  make  themselves  felt 
about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  While  the 
empire  falls  a prey  to  sectional  rivalries,  while  the  church 
shows  signs  of  internal  decay,  while  chivalry  deteriorates 
both  economically  and  morally,  modern  freedom  finds  its  first 
embodiment  in  the  communal  independence  of  the  great 
commercial  centres.  Corporate  interest,  to  be  sure,  remains 
even  here  the  chief  concern  of  life  ; but  by  its  side,  or 
rather  within  it,  there  develops  a spirit  of  self-assertion,  of 
observation,  of  introspection,  which  ultimately  must  turn 
against  the  corporate  consciousness  and  destroy  it.  In  the 
directness  and  subjectivity  of  the  Volkslied;  in  the  sturdy 
realism  of  the  religious  drama;  in  the  glorification  by  the 
Mystics  of  the  inner  union  between  God  and  the  individual 
soul;  in  the  proclamation  by  the  Humanists  of  the  sove- 
reignty of  the  individual  intellect — we  see  different  phases 
of  that  revolt  against  mediaeval  society  which  culminates  in 
the  religious  Reformation. 

The  reformation  begins  with  a grand  movement  fot 
popular  freedom;  it  ends  by  establishing  more  firmly  than 
ever  the  absolutism,  religious  as  well  as  political,  of  the  ter- 
ritorial princes.  It  begins  with  the  restoration  of  national 
unity  and  greatness  in  sight;  it  ends  in  the  misery  of  the 
Thirty  Years’  War.  By  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  fate  of  Germany  seems  to  be  sealed.  Instead 
of  the  generous,  broad,  all-embracing  mediaeval  church  there 
dominates  in  religious  affairs  a narrow,  spiteful,  inquisitorial 
sectarianism.  Instead  of  the  cultivated  and  public-spirited 
aristocracy  of  the  Hohenstaufen  period,  there  rules  in 
political  matters  an  ignorant,  swaggering,  depraved  cavalier- 
dom.  The  proud,  stately,  self-asserting  burgher  of  the 
palmy  days  of  the  Hanse  has  been  transformed  into  a 


6 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

timid,  cowed,  official-ridden  subject.  Literature  is  degraded 
into  a plaything  for  idle  courtiers.  The  German  past  is 
effaced.  Society  is  atomized;  public  life  is  dead. 

At  this  point  there  sets  in  a movement,  the  roots  of 
which  go  back  to  Humanism  and  the  Reformation,  the 
climax  of  which  is  attained  in  the  age  of  Kant  and  Goethe, 
' — the  struggle  for  completeness  of  individuality.  Debarred 
from  active  participation  in  public  life,  hemmed  in  by  nar- 
row surroundings,  out  of  contact  with  the  nation  at  large, 
Germany’s  best  men  now  turn  all  the  more  eagerly  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  inner  self.  Reorganization  of  the  national 
body  through  regeneration  of  the  individual  mind — this 
now  becomes  the  great  task  of  literature.  Pietism  and 
Rationalism,  Sentimentalism  and  Storm-and-Stress,  Classi- 
cism and  Romanticism,  co-operate  in  this  common  task  of 
building  up  and  rounding  out  the  inner  life.  And  at  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  at  the  very  time  when  the 
last  remnants  of  the  old  German  empire  are  swept  away  by 
the  irresistible  tide  of  the  French  Revolution,  German  cul- 
ture has  reached  a height  which  is  best  described  in  the 
words  of  Goethe  : Germany  as  a whole  is  nothing,  the 

individual  German  is  everything.*' 

And  here,  finally,  begins  the  last  great  movement  of  Ger- 
man thought.  Just  as  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  and  his 
peers  point  beyond  the  conventions  of  chivalric  society 
toward  individual  freedom  and  culture,  so  Goethe,  Schiller, 
and  their  kin  point  beyond  individual  freedom  and  culture 
toward  the  common  tasks  of  a new  society.  German  litera- 
ture of  the  nineteenth  century,  while  by  no  means  discard- 
ing the  individualism  of  the  eighteenth,  finds  its  highest 
inspiration  in  this  new,  collectivistic  ideal. 

This  is,  in  outline,  the  intellectual  development  which  we 
shall  now  proceed  to  consider  in  detail,  briefly  up  to  the 
time  of  the  Thirty  Years’ War,  somewhat  more  fully  from 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  to  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century. 


CHAPTER  le 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 

(From  the  Fifth  to  the  Ninth  Century,) 

The  period  of  the  Migrations,  introducing  for  the  first 
time  Germanic  tribes  as  shapers  of  the  destiny  of  Europe, 
forms  the  opening  chapter  in  the  political  career 
of  the  German  people.  From  their  seats  north  mentsofthe 
and  east  of  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine,  where  various  tribes, 
we  find  the  Germans  settled  at  the  time  of  Augustus,  they 
move,  tribe  after  tribe,  southward  and  westward  and  grad- 
ually overrun  the  greater  part  of  the  Roman  empire.  First, 
to  mention  only  a few  striking  dates,  the  Visigoths  under 
their  heroic  leader  Alaric  (d.  410)  sweep  over  the  Balkan 
peninsula,  down  into  Greece,  and  through  all  Italy,  until 
they  finally  settle  in  Spain.  They  are  succeeded  by  the 
Vandals,  who  with  equally  irresistible  rapidity  pass  through 
middle  and  southwestern  Europe,  cross  over  to  Africa  (429), 
and  from  there,  by  frequent  piratical  expeditions,  terrorize 
the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  About  the  same  time  the 
Burgundians  leave  their  seats  between  the  Oder  and  the 
Vistula  and  settle  in  the  upper  Rhine  valley;  until,  defeated 
in  a violent  conflict  with  Hunnish  tribes  (437),  they  abandon 
this  new  home  also  and  move  on  towards  the  banks  of  the 
Rhone.  Soon  after  (449),  the  Anglo-Saxons,  hired  by  the 
Britons  to  assist  them  in  their  struggle  against  the  Piets  and 
Scots,  swarm  over  the  Channel  and,  having  conquered  the 
common  foe,  defeat  and  subdue  their  former  allies.  There 
follows  the  gigantic  clash  between  the  Roman  world  and 
the  Hunnish  invaders  under  Attila;  and  here  again  Ger* 

1 


8 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


manic  tribes  play  an  important  part.  Attila  himself  appears 
half  Germanized,  his  name  is  Gothic/  at  his  court  he  re- 
ceives Gothic  singers,  Ostrogoths  and  Thuringians  form  a 
part  of  his  hosts;  but  against  him  also,  on  the  side  of  the 
Romans,  there  are  German  armies,  and  the  great  battle  of 
Chalons  (451)  is  won  mainly  through  the  valour  of  the  Visb 
goths.  Shortly  afterwards  the  domination  of  Italy  passes 
definitely  into  German  hands.  In  476  Odoacer,  a chieftain 
of  the  tribe  of  the  Heruli,  dethrones  the  powerless  Roman 
emperor  and  assumes  himself  the  title  of  patricius  and  king 
of  Italy.  This  rule  soon  gives  way  to  that  of  the  noble 
tribe  of  the  Ostrogoths,  who  under  their  great  leader  The- 
oderic  and  his  successors  not  only  extend  their  sway  over 
the  greater  part  of  the  peninsula,  but  also  attempt  to  bring 
about  a reconciliation  between  Germanic  and  Roman  cul- 
ture and  institutions;  until  they,  in  turn,  succumb  to  the 
armies  of  the  Byzantine  emperor  (552).  Now  the  Lango- 
bards  rush  into  the  place  left  free  by  the  Ostrogoths,  and 
for  two  centuries  (568-774)  subject  the  people  of  northern 
Italy  to  an  iron  military  rule,  without,  however,  leaving 
more  than  a sporadic  impress  on  the  character  of  the  van- 
quished country.  Finally,  the  Franks,  by  overthrowing  the 
Roman  rule  in  Gaul  and  by  gradually  forcing  the  other 
German  tribes  into  their  allegiance,  become  the  dominating 
power  in  Europe,  and,  under  Charles  the  Great,  even  restore 
the  name  and  supremacy  of  the  old  Roman  empire.  With 
the  foundation  of  the  Carolingian  monarchy  the  westward 
wanderings  of  the  Germanic  nations  may  be  said  to  have 
come  to  an  end;  except  for  the  Norsemen,  whose  Viking 
expeditions  continued  to  infest  the  coast  districts  of  north- 
ern and  western  Europe  throughout  the  ninth  century, 
terminating  only  with  the  establishment  of  that  Norman 


Mt  is  a diminutive  form  of  Goth,  atta  = father.  Cf.  J.  Grimm, 
Gesch.  der  d,  Spr?  p.  189.  332.  F.  Kluge,  Nominale  Stammbildungs- 
Uhre  § 56. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS,  9 

colony  on  French  soil  (912)  which  was  destined  to  be  the 
foster-mother  of  English  greatness. 

The  full  extent  of  the  extraordinary  revolution  which 
these  centuries  of  uninterrupted  warfare  and  tumult  pro- 
duced in  the  life  and  character  of  the  German  Effect  of  the 
race  it  is  hard  for  us  to  appreciate  at  this  dis-  Migrations  on 
tant  day.  But  if  we  were  to  express  in  a word  character, 
the  main  lines  on  which  this  revolution  seems  to  have  pro- 
ceeded, we  might  say  that  the  Teutons  during  the  period  of 
the  Migrations  conquered  the  world  at  the  expense  of  them- 
selves. In  the  time  of  Tacitus  they  were  the  most  purely 
aboriginal  and  unadulterated  nation  of  Europe;  in  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Great  they  are  largely  Romanized.  Before 
they  had  crossed  the  Danube,  they  prayed  to  Wodan  and 
Donar  and  Frija;  having  overthrown  the  Roman  empire, 
they  bow  before  the  Crucified  One.  Once,  in  their  native 
woods,  they  were  free  men;  now,  on  foreign  soil,  they  obey 
kings.  It  would,  of  course,  be  a mistake  to  see  in  this  self- 
surrender of  Germanic  tradition  and  faith  a loss  only. 
Without  the  influx  of  Roman  elements,  without  Christian- 
ity, without  the  feudal  monarchy,  the  history  of  the  Middle 
Ages  would  have  been  without  its  greatest  glory  and  its 
greatest  achievements.  And  even  the  very  process  of  mas- 
tering the  new  form  of  life,  the  struggle  between  native  and 
foreign  conceptions  and  institutions,  seems  to  have  brought 
out  in  the  character  of  the  German  invaders  traits  which 
otherwise  might  have  remained  hidden. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  was  this  very  conflict 
which  gave  rise  to  those  manifestations  of  a haughty  race- 
feeling which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  heroes 
of  the  Migration  period.  As  early  as  the  begin- 
ning  of  the  third  century  an  adventurous  Gothic  herdboy — 
the  later  emperor  Maximinus — found  his  way  into  the  camp 
of  a Roman  army  and  the  presence  of  the  Roman  emperor. 
Far  from  being  overawed  by  the  august  surroundings,  he 
at  once  enters  upon  a wrestling-match  with  one  of  the  im- 


10  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


perial  body-guards,  and  tries  to  outrun  the  horse  of  the 
emperor  himself.^  When  Alaric,  before  the  walls  of  Rome, 
is  met  by  a deputation  of  citizens,  who,  in  order  to  frighten 
him  from  an  attack  on  the  city,  point  out  to  him  the  strength 
of  the  Roman  army,  he  answers:^  ‘^Well,  the  thicker  the 
grass  the  easier  it  is  to  mow/'  When  the  Vandal  king 
Geiseric  sets  out  on  one  of  his  piratic  expeditions,  and 
the  pilot  asks  him  whither  he  shall  direct  his  course,  the 
king  replies/  “Wherever  there  are  people  with  whom  God 
is  angry."  Such  stories,  be  they  historically  correct  or  not, 
show  at  least  the  spirit  attributed  to  the  leaders  of  the  in- 
vaders by  their  own  contemporaries;  and  something  of  the 
same  spirit,  of  the  same  contempt  for  their  enemies,  of  the 
same  fatalistic  belief  in  their  own  power  and  race-superiority, 
must  have  lived  in  the  masses  of  the  invaders  also.  Surely, 
nothing  could  be  prouder  and  more  defiant  than  the  seif- 
characterization  of  the  Franks  in  the  prologue  of  their 
national  code,  the  Lex  Salica:"'  “ The  glorious  people  of  the 
Franks,  whose  founder  is  God  himself,  brave  in  arms,  firm  in 
peace,  wise  in  council,  noble  in  body,  radiant  in  health, 
excelling  in  beauty,  daring,  quick,  hardened,  . . . this  is 
the  people  which  shook  the  cruel  yoke  of  the  Romans  from 
its  neck." 

Alongside  of  this  proud  self-consciousness  of  a people 
brimming  over  with  animal  vigour  and  youthful  defiance  we 
Contact  with  equally  wonderful  power  of  adaptation  in 

higher  civili-  these  German  barbarians,  and  this  faculty  also  is 
zation,  stimulated  by  the  contact  with  the  higher  civiliza- 

tion of  Rome  and  the  deeper  thought  of  the  Christian  church. 
The  history  of  the  world  knows  few  more  impressive  figures 
than  Theoderic,  the  noble  Ostrogoth,  who,  after  having  es- 


* Jordanes  Getica  ed.  Th.  Mommsen  XV,  84  ff. 

* Zosimus  \Iaropia  vea  ed.  Imm.  Bekker  V,  40. 

^ Procopius  De  bello  Vandalico  ed.  W.  Dindorf  I,  §* * 

* Lm  SMm  i?d,  Merekd  preL  IV., 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS, 


II 


tablished  the  dominion  of  his  people  in  Italy  with  bloody 
hand,  attempts  to  rule  as  a prince  of  peace  over  Teutons 
and  Romans  alike,  protecting  the  weak,  advancing  the 
public  prosperity,  establishing  a new  code  of  law,  surround- 
ing himself  with  Roman  statesmen,  philosophers  and  artists, 
and  at  the  same  time  preserving  the  proud,  warlike  traditions 
of  his  own  people.  No  more  venerable  leader  is  seen  at 
the  beginning  of  any  nation’s  history  than  Ulfilas,  the  bishop 
of  the  Visigoths  (d.  381),  who,  a second  Moses,  guiding  his 
people  through  war  and  strife,  at  the  same  time  became, 
through  his  translation  of  the  Bible,  the  creator  of  their 
written  language.  No  purer  and  better  men  have  ever  lived 
than  the  Anglo-Saxon  missionaries,  such  as  Willibrord 
(d.  c.  740)  and  Winifred  (d.  755),  who,  only  a few  gen- 
erations after  their  own  nation  had  been  won  over  to 
Christianity,  set  out  to  preach  the  gospel  to  their  Ger- 
man brethren  on  the  Rhine  and  the  Weser : men  sturdy 
in  mind  and  body,  single-minded,  open-eyed,  full  of  com- 
mon sense,  yet  unflinchingly  clinging  to  the  spiritual, 
ready  to  lay  down  their  lives  at  any  moment  in  the  service 
of  the  eternal. 

And  what  hero  of  the  world’s  history  could  be  compared 
to  the  man  whose  towering  figure  stands  at  the  end  of 
this  whole  epoch  : Charles  the  Great  ? His 
attempt  to  weld  the  Germanic  tribes  into  one 
mighty  nation  may  have  been  premature;  his 
methods  of  spreading  the  Christian  religion  may  have 
been  crude  and  barbaric;  his  efforts,  both  for  the  renewal 
of  classic  literature  and  art  and  for  the  preservation  of 
ancient  Germanic  poetry,  may  have  been  temporary  fail- 
ures; yet  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  his  life-work  was  an 
anticipation  of  the  course  which  German  culture  was  to 
take  during  the  next  eight  hundred  years.  His  empire  soon 
crumbled  to  pieces,  but  the  idea  of  German  unity  and  the 
memory  of  Germanic  traditions  remained  alive,  in  spite  of 
all  that  tended  to  obliterate  them.  The  splendour  of  imperial 


12  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Aachen  soon  vanished,  but  the  seeds  from  which  was  to 
spring  the  flower  of  mediaeval  art  had  not  been  sown  in  vain. 
The  fame  of  the  imperial  academy  was  soon  forgotten, 
but  the  foundations  had  been  laid  for  a system  of  public 
instruction  which  was  to  maintain  throughout  the  Middle 
Ages  the  contact  at  least  of  the  clergy  with  classic  antiquity; 
and  scholars  like  Paulus  Diaconus,  Einhard,  and  Alcuin, 
the  emperor’s  most  trusted  advisers,  must  be  counted 
among  the  forerunners  of  sixteenth-century  Humanism. 

One  may  be  fully  sensible  of  these  hopeful  and  positive 
features  of  the  time,  and  yet  find  the  chief  characteristic  of 
Disintegration  period  of  the  Migrations  in  a complete  up- 
ofpnWic  mo-  rooting  of  public  morality,  a universal  overturn- 
rality.  inherited  conceptions  of  right  and  wrong. 

Even  if  we  consider  the  description  of  Germanic  society  by 
Tacitus,  written  about  three  hundred  years  before  the  Mi- 
grations began,  as  too  idealistic  and  as,  in  some  respects, 
overdrawn,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  life  of  the  Ger- 
mans at  that  time  was  in  a singular  degree  surrounded  and 
guarded  by  a pure  tradition,  that  the  sanctity  of  blood-rela- 
tionship, the  holiness  of  the  plighted  word,  the  chastity  of 
women,  were  with  them  ideals  not  yet  to  be  defiled  without 
popular  chastisement.  And  nothing  could  more  vividly  ex- 
press the  very  essence  of  Germanic  life  at  that  time  than  the 
famous  word  of  the  Roman  historian,®  that  with  the  Germans 
good  customs  were  more  powerful  than  elsewhere  good  laws. 
Now  this  whole  fabric  of  popular  custom  is  broken  up.  In 
the  decades,  nay,  centuries  of  perpetual  fighting  and  wan- 
dering that  follow,  tribal  traditions  are  effaced,  the  contact 
with  the  native  soil  is  lost,  family  ties  are  severed,  religious 
beliefs  are  shattered.  And  now  there  appear,  as  the  typical 

® Tacitus  Germania  ed.  Mullenhoff,  c.  19. — A masterly  character- 
ization of  primitive  Germanic  culture  in  K.  Lamprecht,  Deutsche  Ge^ 
schichte  I,  160  ff.  Cf.  W.  Arnold,  Deutsche  Urzeit  p.  1S7  ff.  F. 
Dahn,  d,  deutschen  Urzeit  122  ii.  For  the  oldest  religious 

poetry  cf.  R.  Koegel,  Gesch,  d.  d.  Liit,  bis  z.  Ausg,  d,  MA,  I,  12  ff. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 


13 


hero  and  heroine  of  the  period,  the  man  without  conscience, 
the  woman  without  shame,  believing  in  nothing  but  them- 
selves, restrained  by  nothing  but  the  limits  of  their  own 
power,  individuals  cut  loose  from  the  laws  of  common 
humanity. 

Especially  the  annals  of  the  Langobards  and  the  Franks  are 
stained  with  the  record  of  crimes,  perhaps  the  most  atrocious 
and  colossal  in  human  history.  The  Langobard  Alboin  and 
king  Alboin  had  killed  in  battle  the  king  of  a Rosamond, 
rival  tribe,  Kunimund.  Out  of  the  murdered  man’s  skull  he 
ordered  a drinking-cup  to  be  made,  his  daughter  Rosamond 
he  carried  away  captive  and  made  her  his  wife.  Once, 
at  a drinking-bout  in  his  banquet-hall,  he  has  the  cup 
filled  with  wine,  and  offers  it  to  the  queen.  Compelled  to 
drink,  she  obeys,  but  she  feels  deeply  the  insult  to  her 
father’s  memory,  and  resolves  on  revenge.  She  hires  a mur- 
derer, leads  him  herself  into  the  room  where  Alboin  is 
taking  his  noonday  rest,  binds  the  sword  of  the  sleeping 
man  to  the  bedstead,  takes  away  his  shield,  and  then 
watches  him  as  he  falls  under  the  blows  of  the  assassin. 
She  marries  an  accomplice  to  the  murder,  Helmichis  ; and 
both,  taking  with  them  Alboin’s  treasure,  flee  the  country. 
But  soon  Rosamond’s  wanton  desire  is  directed  toward 
another  lover.  She  gives  poison  to  Helmichis  ; but  he, 
after  putting  the  cup  to  his  lips,  feels  what  he  has  taken,  and 
forces  Rosamond  to  drink  the  rest  of  the  deadly  potion. 

The  whole  record  of  Clovis,  the  king  of  the  Franks,  who 
through  his  alliance  with  the  papal  see  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  feudal  theocracy  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
is  one  of  broken  faith  and  brutal  perfidy.  It 
may  suffice  to  relate  one  episode  in  his  career,  in  the 
words  of  the  bishop  Gregory  of  Tours,  the  foremost  con- 
temporary chronicler  of  the  deeds  of  the  Merovingian 
kings  (d.  594)*: 


Paulus  Diaconus  Historia  Langobardorum  ed.  G.  Waitz  II,  28  f. 
® Gregorius  Turonensis  Historia  Francorum  ed.  W.  Arndt  II,  40. 


14  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


“After  Clovis  had  made  Paris  his  capital,  he  sent  secret  messen- 
gers to  Cloderic,  son  of  Sigibert,  king  of  the  Ripuarian  Franks,  who 
resided  at  Cologne,  with  these  words  : ‘Your  father  is  old  and  feeble 
and  lame.  If  he  were  dead,  his  kingdom  and  our  friendship  would 
be  yours.*  This  message  aroused  the  young  man*s  cupidity,  and  set 
him  to  thinking  how  he  could  do  away  with  his  father.  One  day  the 
latter  was  hunting  in  the  forests  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  opposite 
Cologne  ; when  at  noon  he  was  lying  asleep  in  his  tent,  assassins, 
hired  by  his  son,  fell  upon  him  and  killed  him.  Thereupon  the  son 
sent  messengers  to  king  Clovis,  who  said  in  Cloderic*s  name  : ‘ My 
father  is  dead,  and  his  kingdom  and  treasures  are  now  mine.  Send 
some  of  your  people  to  me,  and  I will  gladly  give  you  whatever  of 
my  father’s  treasure  pleases  you.*  Clovis  answered:  ‘I  thank  you 
for  your  good  will.  When  my  envoys  come,  do  not  hesitate,  I pray 
you,  to  show  them  all  ; for  I shall  not  take  anything  of  your  riches.* 
The  messengers  came,  and  Cloderic  showed  them  the  treasure  of  his 
father.  Leading  them  to  one  of  the  chests,  he  said  : ‘ In  this  chest 
my  father  used  to  keep  his  coins.*  ‘ Will  you  not,*  answered  the 
messengers,  ‘ reach  with  your  hand  into  it  down  to  the  bottom 
that  we  may  see  all  that  is  in  it?*  He  did  so,  and  as  he 
stooped,  one  of  the  men  split  his  skull  with  an  axe.  Clovis,  at  the 
news  of  Cloderic’s  death,  hastened  to  Cologne,  called  the  people  to- 
gether, and  spoke  as  follows  : ‘Listen  to  what  has  happened!  While 
I was  far  from  here,  sailing  down  the  Scheldt  river,  Cloderic,  the 
son  of  my  own  cousin  Sigibert,  coveting  his  father’s  realm,  made  him 
believe  that  I was  seeking  his  life.  And  when  the  old  man,  alarmed 
by  this  suspicion,  fled,  he  sent  assassins  after  him  who  succeeded  in 
killing  him.  Thereafter  Cloderic  himself,  while  displaying  his 
father’s  treasures,  was  likewise  murdered  by  a man  unknown  to  me. 
In  all  these  things  I have  had  no  part ; for  I am  not  so  wicked  as  to 
kill  my  own  kin.  But  since  it  has  thus  come  to  pass,  I give  you  this 
advice  : turn  to  me,  that  you  may  live  securely  under  my  protection.* 
The  people,  when  they  heard  this,  applauded  Clovis,  lifted  him  on  the 
shield,  and  greeted  him  as  king.” 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  give  further  proofs  of  the  utter 
disintegration  of  moral  feeling  brought  about  by  the  poli- 
tical and  social  revolution  of  the  Migration  period;  but 
it  may  be  added  that  the  part  played  by  women 

Predegond  shocking  history  of  crime  and  perfidy 

and  Brunluld.  .... 

seems  to  have  been  even  more  striking  than  that 

of  mem  There  h a touch  of  genuine  humanity  in  Rosa** 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS, 


15 


mond's  atrocities  ; for  they  proceeded  in  the  first  place 
from  filial  attachment  and  wounded  pride.  But  one  looks 
in  vain  for  any  redeeming  weakness  or  virtue  in  such 
characters  as  the  Frankish  princess  Austrichildis,  who, 
dying,  entreated  her  husband  to  have  the  attendant  physi- 
cians beheaded  after  her  death,®  or  the  rival  queens,  Frede- 
gond  and  Brunhild,  who  involved  a whole  generation  of 
Frankish  princes  in  their  own  vice  and  villany.  There  is 
no  parallel  in  history  to  the  fearful  death  which  Brunhild, 
by  that  time  a white-haired  matron  of  about  seventy  years, 
found  in  613  at  the  hands  of  the  enraged  Frankish  nobles. 
Convicted  of  the  murder  of  ten  members  of  the  Mero- 
vingian dynasty,  she  was  tortured  for  three  days,  led  through 
the  camp  on  the  back  of  a camel,  tied  to  the  feet  of  wild 
horses  and  dragged  to  death.  Her  corpse  was  thrown  into 
the  fired® 

To  sum  up.  It  is  a time  of  rapid  national  expansion,  of 
radical  changes  in  habit,  in  conduct,  in  belief  ; a time  full 
of  gigantic  passions,  full  of  unscrupulous  achieve- 
ment. The  heart  of  the  people  is  stirred  by 
the  sight  of  great  individuals  and  mighty  deeds,  represent- 
ing those  tremendous  forces  which  are  shaping  the  destiny 
of  the  people  itself,  showing  in  striking  proportions  the 
power  of  this  youthful  race  both  for  good  and  for  evil. 

Out  of  such  travail  great  epics  are  born.  Such  a time  it 
was  when  the  Hindu  people  migrated  from  their  peaceful 
settlements  on  the  banks  of  the  Indus  south- 
ward, to  conquer  the  nations  of  the  Ganges  J^carXTof 
valley;  and  the  poetical  reflection  of  this  era  of  theMigra- 
warfare  and  conquest  was  the  great  national  epic 
Mahabbharata,  Such  a time  it  was  when  the  Greeks 
fought  their  way  into  western  Asia  ; and  the  poetical  re- 
flection of  this  combat  was  the  Homeric  poetry.  Now  the 
same  thing  happens  again  ; at  the  entrance  of  modern 

^ Gregorius  Turonensis  /.  r.  V,  35. 

Liber  historiae  Francorum  ed.  B.  Krusch  c.  40. 


Conclusion. 


l6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


European  history,  and  as  a poetical  reflection  of  the  time 
of  the  Migrations,  stand  the  great  epic  poems  of  the  Ger- 
manic peoples  : — creations  alive  with  all  the  stir  and  strife 
of  the  time  ; retaining  an  afterglow  of  the  oldest  mythical 
tradition,  but  strangely  tinged  with  recent  historical  experi- 
ences ; representing  the  old  Germanic  idea  of  uprightness, 
devotion  and  fidelity,  but  also  the  loosening  of  all  social 
bonds,  and  the  rule  of  vile  passions  brought  about  through 
this  age  of  revolt  ; a grand  triumphal  song  of  world-wide 
victories,  but  also  a fearful  record  of  the  reach  of  guilt  and 
the  tragedy  of  greatness. 

Our  direct  knowledge  of  these  poems  is  very  scanty.  We 
know  that  they  were  sung  or  recited  in  the  banquet-halls  of 
Germanic  kings,  mostly  by  men  of  noble  blood, 
dtal^  who  themselves  might  have  taken  part  in  the 

heroic  scenes  which  they  described.  The  By- 
zantine statesman  Priscus,  in  the  narrative  of  his  stay  at 
the  court  of  Attila,  tells  of  the  appearance  of  Gothic  sing- 
ers at  the  royal  table.  Towards  evening,”  he  says,^’  ^‘they 
lit  torches,  and  two  barbarians,  stepping  in  front  of  Attila, 
recited  songs  celebrating  his  victories  and  warlike  virtues. 
The  guests  looked  intently  at  the  singers,  some  enjoying  the 
poems,  some  inspired  by  the  thought  of  their  own  frays  ; 
others,  however,  whose  bodies  had  become  feeble,  and 
whose  impetuosity  had  been  calmed  by  age,  bursting  into 
tears.”  Jordanes,  the  historian  of  the  Ostrogoths,  relates 
of  the  nobles  of  his  own  race,  that,  accompanied  by  stringed 
instruments,  they  sang  the  heroic  deeds  of  their  ances- 
tors.*^ In  the  Anglo-Saxon  poem  Beowulf  a thane  of 
the  king  is  introduced,*^ — 

a man  renowned,  mindful  of  songs, 
he  who  very  many  of  old-time  sagas, 
a great  number  remembered, 


Cf.  Historici  Graeci  minores  ed.  L.  Dindorf  I,  317. 
Jordanes  Getica  V,  43. 

V.  867  ff. ; Garnett’s  translation. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS.  1 7 

riding  on  horseback  with  other  warriors  and  singing  to 
them  of  dragon-fights  and  the  winning  of  ring-hoards. 

We  know,  also,  or  may  at  least  infer,  that  the  form  of  all 
of  these  poems  once  in  existence  was  the  same  as  that  of 
the  few  preserved  to  us  : namely,  the  rhymeless, 
alliterative  verse,  consisting  of  two  half-lines, 
separated  by  a caesura,  a metre  whose  grand,  sonorous 
monotony  was  wonderfully  adapted  to  the  representation  of 
a life  of  primitive  heroism. 

But  as  to  the  subject-matter  of  these  poems,  the  extent 
of  the  sagas  treated  in  them,  and  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  treated,  our  knowledge  is  for  the  most  part 
based  not  upon  these  songs  themselves  but 
upon  indirect  evidence  drawn  from  works  of 
a much  later  period.  It  is  well  known  that  the  Christian 
church,  considering  the  native  Germanic  traditions  as 
heathenish  monstrosities,  tried  to  suppress  them  in  every 
possible  way.  This  attempt  was  so  successful  that,  al- 
though even  a man  like  Charles  the  Great  asserted  his 
influence  for  the  preservation  and  collection  of  ancient 
popular  lays,^^  they  had  by  the  end  of  the  tenth  cen- 
tury, with  a few  exceptions,  disappeared.  And  the  only 
genuine  remnants  of  the  poetry  of  the  Migration  per- 
iod left  to  us  are  the  Anglo-Saxon  poem  of  Beowulf, 
just  mentioned  (end  of  the  seventh  century),  a fragment 
of  the  old  Low-German  song  of  Hildebrand  (c.  800), 
and  the  heroic  lays  of  the  Icelandic  JEdda  (ninth  and 
tenth  centuries).  Fortunately,  however,  the  memory  of 
the  deeds  related  in  the  ancient  songs  did  not  die  out  with 
the  songs  themselves.  And  when  in  the  twelfth  century, 
ushered  in  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  crusades  and  the 
glorious  reign  of  the  Hohenstaufen,  a new  epoch  of 
literary  greatness  dawned  upon  Germany,  the  old  heroes  of 
the  Migration  period  again  took  hold  of  the  popular  fancy 


Einhard  Pifa  Karoli  Magni  ed.  G.  Waitz  c,  29. 


1 8 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  again  were  celebrated  in  epic  song.  Of  course  they 
did  not  appear  in  the  same  guise  as  of  old  : they  were  thor- 
oughly Christianized,  from  fierce  stormy  barbarians  they 
had  turned  into  gallant  chivalrous  knights;  and  yet  it  is 
possible  to  detect  the  old  spirit  even  in  this  new  form,  to 
recognise  in  these  creations  of  the  Minnesinger  period  the 
contemporaries  of  Attila  and  Theoderic. 

It  is,  then,  from  these  later  epics,  in  connection  with  the 

few  older  lays  just  mentioned,  that  we  shall  try  to  gather 

Oombination  at  least  a few  hints  of  what  the  heroic  poetry  of 

ofmytliical  Germanic  peoples  of  the  time  of  the  Migra- 

and  nistoncal  . ° 

elements.  tions  seems  to  have  been.  A feature  common 

to  all,  or  nearly  all,  of  these  lays,  which  perhaps  more 
clearly  than  any  other  brings  before  our  mind  the  disinte- 
grating, transforming,  and  readjusting  process  forced  upon 
the  Germanic  tribes  during  their  wanderings,  is,  on  the 
one  hand,  a strange  blending  of  half-forgotten  mythical 
legends  with  historical  facts,  on  the  other,  an  utter  con- 
fusion of  the  historical  tradition  itself. 

Thus  Theoderic  the  Ostrogoth,  or,  as  the  epic  poets,  in 
memory  of  his  victory  over  Odoacer  near  Verona  (489),  call 
him,  Dietrich  von  Bern,  is  taken  to  be  a contemporary,  not 
only  of  Attila,  who  in  reality  lived  in  the  time  of  his  father, 
but  also  of  king  Ermanric,  who  lived  more  than  a century 
before  him;  and  this  Ermanric  is  called  king  of  Rome,  in- 
stead of  what  he  really  was,  king  of  the  Goths.  The  his- 
torical fact  then  of  the  conquest  of  Italy  by  the  Ostrogoths 
is  reproduced  in  this  legendary  form:  Theoderic  is  driven 
from  his  Italian  home  through  the  evil  devices  of  his  uncle 
Ermanric;  with  a few  faithful  followers  he  finds  refuge  at 
the  court  of  Attila,  where  for  long  years  he  lives  as  an 
exile;  finally  he  gathers  an  army  round  him,  returns  to 
Italy,  defeats  Ermanric,  and  wins  back  his  inherited 
kingdom. 

In  the  same  way  the  Beowulf  saga  retains  the  memory  of 
an  actual  Danish  chieftain,  living  in  the  beginning  of  the 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 


19 


sixth  century,  blended  with  the  remnants  of  an  ancient 
myth  of  the  fight  between  a dragon  and  a godlike  hero.  So 
an  old  Vandal  myth  of  a pair  of  divine  youths,  similar  to 
that  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  developed  through  a succession 
of  curious  interpretations  and  combinations  into  the  sagas 
of  Ortnit  and  Wolfdietrich,  who  are  called  kings  of  Lom- 
bardy and  Constantinople  ; and  their  legends  are  connected 
with  confused  recollections  of  the  intestine  wars  of  the 
Merovingian  dynasty.  So  the  sagas  of  Hilde,  Gudrun,  and 
Walthari,  different  as  they  are  from  each  other  in  plot  and 
scenery,  the  two  former  depicting  episodes  in  the  pirate 
life  of  the  Norsemen,  the  latter  introducing  us  into  the 
conflict  between  Attila’s  hosts  and  the  nations  of  western 
Europe,  yet  all  three  contain  the  same  old  mythical  basis: 
the  rape  of  a Valkyrie,  the  pursuit  of  the  robber,  and  a 
violent  combat  ensuing  from  it. 

So,  finally,  the  Nibelungen  saga,  the  greatest  of  them  all, 
consists  of  an  almost  inextricable  web  of  mythical  and  his- 
torical threads  intertwined. 

The  mythical  element  is  of  Frankish  origin. “ There  is 
a treasure  upon  which  the  gods  have  laid  a curse;  Siegfried, 
or,  as  the  Norse  poets  call  him,  Sigurd  wins  it  by  killing  the 
dragon  hoarding  it.  There  is  an  enchanted  virgin  sleeping 
on  a mountain  side  surrounded  by  a wall  of  flames,  to  be 
delivered  only  by  him  who  is  chosen.  Siegfried  is  the 
chosen  one;  he  rides  through  the  fiery  wall,  awakens  Brun- 
hild, or,  as  the  Norsemen  also  call  her,  Sigrdrifa,  and 
makes  her  his  bride.  But  soon  he  becomes  the  prey  of 
demonic  powers.  He  leaves  his  wife  and  arrives  at  the 
court  of  the  king  of  the  Nibelungs,  the  sons  of  darkness, 
who  are  imagined  as  a race  living  near  the  Rhine  stream. 
Here,  through  a magic  potion,  he  is  made  forgetful  of 
Brunhild  and  marries  the  king’s  daughter,  whose  name  in 
the  later  German  poems  is  Kriemhild.  The  latter's  brother 


« Cf.  GdgPh.  II,  I,/.  25  f. 


20  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

Gunther,  in  the  Norse  sources  called  Gunnar,  hears  of  Brun- 
hild’s beauty  and  sets  out  to  woo  her.  Unable  to  overcome 
her  strength,  he  appeals  to  Siegfried,  and  the  latter,  dis- 
guised as  Gunther,  conquers  Brunhild  for  a second  time. 
When  Brunhild  learns  what  an  outrage  has  been  done  to 
her,  she  resolves  on  Siegfried’s  death.  She  incites  the 
Nibelungs  against  him,  and  he  is  treacherously  slain,  his 
treasure  being  made  the  booty  of  his  murderers.  When 
Brunhild  sees  his  corpse  on  the  pyre,  her  passion  for  him 
bursts  out  once  more;  she  stabs  herself,  and  is  burnt  to- 
gether with  her  faithless  lover. 

With  this  essentially  mythical  tale  there  were  connected 
in  course  of  time  dim  historical  reminiscences  of  the  period 
of  the  Migrations.  At  the  beginning  of  this  chapter 
was  mentioned  the  decisive  defeat  which,  in  437,  the  Bur- 
gundians, then  settled  in  the  upper  Rhine  valley,  suffered 
in  a terrible  conflict  with  the  Hunnish  invaders,  their  king 
Gundicar  and  some  twenty  thousand  of  the  tribe  being 
killed.  This  king  Gundicar  is  identified  with  the  Gun- 
ther of  the  Siegfried  saga,  the  Nibelungs  are  identified  with 
the  Burgundians,  and  their  collision  with  the  Huns  is  con- 
sidered as  having  been  brought  about  through  the  latter’s 
coveting  Siegfried’s  treasure.  But  this  is  not  enough. 
Although  the  historical  Attila  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  conflict  between  the  Huns  and  the  Burgundians, 
his  name  also,  being  one  of  the  most  impressive  of  the  time, 
is  connected  with  the  new  form  of  the  Nibelungen  saga:  he 
is  introduced  as  the  leader  of  the  Huns  in  the  destruction 
of  Gunther’s  race.  And  finally,  his  wife  Ildico,  who  is  said 
to  have  murdered  him,  is  identified  with  Siegfried’s  widow 
Kriemhild;  and  either,  as  in  the  Norse  poems,  appears  as 
the  avenger  of  the  ruin  of  her  race,  the  Burgundians,  by 
killing  her  Hunnish  husband,  or,  as  in  the  later  German 
form  of  the  saga,  marries  him  merely  in  order  to  take  revenge, 
through  him,  on  the  murderers  of  her  first  husband,  Sieg- 
fried. The  last  touch  is  added  to  the  saga  by  the  ap- 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS, 


21 


pearance  of  the  great  Theoderic,  who,  in  accordance  with 
the  majestic  wisdom  of  his  traditional  character,  here  also 
takes  the  part  of  supreme  judge.  After  the  terrible  struggle 
is  over,  Huns  and  Burgundians  alike  having  been  slaugh- 
tered by  the  thousand,  the  Gothic  king  steps  up  to  Kriem- 
hild,  the  instigator  of  all  this  horror  and  bloodshed,  and 
beheads  her.^® 

Even  from  what  has  been  said  thus  far,  it  must  have  be- 
come evident  that  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  Pierceness  of 
life  portrayed  in  these  sagas  of  the  Migration  the  life  por- 
period  is  fierce  combativeness  and  reckless  Qerma^c^^^ 
bravery.  Let  us  illustrate  this  point  somewhat  epic, 
more  fully  by  a few  striking  scenes. 

Hildebrand,”  the  armourer  of  Theoderic  of  Bern,  has 
followed  the  latter  into  his  exile  at  Attila’s  court.  After 
many  years’  absence  he  sets  out  to  ride  home- 
ward. On  his  way  he  is  met  and  challenged  by 
his  own  son  Hadubrand,  who  meanwhile  has  become  a 
stranger  to  him.  Hildebrand  inquires  from  the  younger 
man  his  descent  and  kin.  He  replies  : Thus  told  me  our 

people,  old  and  wise  ones,  who  formerly  lived,  that  Hilde- 
brand was  my  father  ; I am  Hadubrand.  Once  he  went 
eastward,  fleeing  before  Odoacer’s  wrath,  with  Theoderic 
and  many  of  his  thanes.  He  left  in  the  land,  helplessly 
sitting,  his  wife  in  the  house,  the  child  ungrown,  bereft  of 
the  inheritance.  Always  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  people, 
always  fight  was  dearest  to  him.  Not,  I think,  is  he  alive.” 


In  the  Nibelungenlied  this  execution  is  performed  by  Theoderic’s 
armourer  Hildebrand. 

Cf.  MSD,^  p,  2 ff.  P.  Piper,  Die  alteste  deutsche  Litter atur 
{DNL.  I)  p.  145  ff.  An  excellent  account  of  the  warlike  aspect  of 
early  Germanic  life  is  given  by  F.  B.  Gummere,  Germanic  Origins 
p.  226  ff. 

About  this  office,  its  frequent  mention  in  the  Germanic  sagas,  and 
its  political  counterpart  in  the  institution  of  the  Frankish  maior  domus 
cf.  Uhland,  Schriften  zur  Gesch.  d.  Dichtung  u.  Sage  I,  242-253. 


22  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Upon  these  words  the  father  makes  himself  known,  and  as 
a token  of  friendship  offers  his  son  a pair  of  golden  brace- 
lets on  the  point  of  his  spear.  But  Hadubrand  suspects 
him  to  be  a trickster,  and  rejects  the  gifts.  ‘‘  With  the  spear 
a man  receives  gifts,  point  against  point.  Thou  old  Hun, 
oversly,  wishest  to  mislead  me  with  thy  words,  wishest  to 
smite  me  with  thy  spear.  Thou  art  such  an  old  man  and 
yet  designest  evil.  Thus  told  me  seafaring  men,  westward 
over  the  Wendelsea,^®  that  war  took  him  away.  Dead  is 
Hildebrand,  Heribrand's  son."'  Now  Hildebrand  bewails 
his  fate,  which  forces  him  to  fight  his  own  son;  but  not  for 
a moment  does  he  think  of  evading  the  combat.  ‘‘  Woe  is 
me,  avenging  God,  woeful  fate  is  near.  I wandered  sum- 
mers and  winters  sixty;  always  they  placed  me  in  the  crowd 
of  the  shooters,  before  no  walls  death  was  brought  me;  now 
my  own  child  shall  strike  me  with  the  sword,  crush  me  with 
his  axe,  or  I become  his  murderer.  But  he  would  be  the 
basest  of  the  Eastern  men  who  would  now  refuse  the  fight, 
since  thou  desirest  strife  so  much.  Try  then  the  combat, 
which  of  us  to-day  shall  loose  his  mail-coat,  or  both  of 
these  byrnies  possess.”  So  they  ride  against  each 
other  with  their  spears;  then  they  dismount  and  fight  with 
swords;  finally,  it  seems, — for  the  end  of  the  lay  is  lost, — the 
father  kills  his  own  offspring.* *® 

Less  pathetic,  but  perhaps  for  that  reason  all  the  more 
unmitigated  in  its  grimness,  is  the  Walthari  saga,  as  it  has 
been  preserved  to  us  in  Latin  by  the  monk 
Walthari.  Ekkehard  I.  of  St.  Gallen  (c.  930).**  Walthari,  like 
Hildebrand,  has  for  years  been  living  at  the  Hunnish  court, 
sent  thither  as  a hostage  by  his  father,  the  Visigothic  king 

The  Mediterranean. 

* This  tragic  end  is  suggested  by  comparison  with  similar  talrs 
of  other  nations,  especially  Persian  and  Gaelic.  Cf.  Uhland  /.  c,  164  ff. 
A happy  ending  in  the  ballad  of  the  15th  century  {DNL.  VII,,  301  ff.). 

Cf.  Waltharius  manu  fortis  ed.  Scheffel  and  Holder  v.  118&  ffc 
J.  Kefle,  Gesch,  d,  d,  Litt,  bis  z.  Mi  tie  d.ii.  Jhdis.  p,  218  ff. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 


23 


of  Aquitaine.  There  he  has  been  betrothed  to  Hildegund, 
the  daughter  of  the  Burgundian  king,  who  also  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  Huns.  Now  the  two  flee  together, 
riding  on  one  horse,  laden  with  treasures  stolen  from  Attila’s 
palace.  In  the  Vosges  mountains  king  Gunther  of  Worms 
with  twelve  thanes  falls  on  him;  and  there,  at  the  mouth  of 
a glen  where  the  fugitives  had  rested  for  a night,  a most 
fearful  slaughter  ensues.  Eleven  of  Gunther’s  men  are 
struck  down,  one  after  another,  by  Walthari’s  sword.  For 
a time  night  puts  an  end  to  the  contest;  Walthari,  ex- 
hausted by  incessant  fighting,  lies  down  to  sleep  in  his  be- 
loved one’s  lap,  while  she,  sitting  erect,  keeps  herself  awake 
by  singing.  But  the  next  morning  the  two  remaining  foes, 
Gunther  himself  and  his  stalwart  champion  Hagen,  ride  up 
to  avenge  the  death  of  their  eleven  comrades.  And  now 
Walthari’s  valour  is  put  to  a decisive  test;  he  first  rushes 
upon  Gunther  and  with  a tremendous  blow  hews  off  his  leg 
near  the  hip.  Hagen  avenges  his  master  by  chopping  off 
Walthari’s  right  hand.  But  even  this  does  not  daunt  the 
irrepressible  hero;  he  slips  the  stump  of  his  right  arm 
through  the  strap  of  his  shield,  grasps  his  sword  with  the 
left,  and  jumping  upon  Hagen  knocks  out  his  right  eye, 
slashes  his  face,  and  dislodges  six  of  his  teeth.  Now  at 
last  the  martial  spirit  gives  way  to  friendly  feeling.  The 
three  mutilated  fighters  sit  down  on  the  grass,  Hildegund 
dresses  their  wounds  and  passes  the  wine,  and  over  grim 
jokes  and  raillery  they  forget  their  bleeding  gashes.  ‘‘In 
future,”  said  Hagen  to  Walthari,  “you  will  have  to  wear 
a leather  glove  stuffed  with  wool  on  your  right  arm,  and 
make  men  believe  it  is  your  hand.  Your  sword  will  hang 
on  your  right  hip,  and  if  you  want  to  embrace  your  dear 
wife  Hildegund,  you’ll  have  to  do  it  with  the  left  arm.” 
Oh,  you  one-eyed  squinter,”  retorted  Walthari,  “ I shall 
strike  down  many  a deer  with  my  left  hand  ere  you  will  be 
able  to  eat  again  your  roast  of  boar.  But  I’ll  give  you 
friendly  advice:  when  you  get  home,  you  had  better  have 


24  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


some  baby  porridge  cooked  up  for  you;  that  is  good  for  a 
toothless  man,  and  strengthens  his  bones.” 

Two  figures,  undoubtedly  among  the  oldest  of  the  Ger- 
manic hero-saga,  who,  in  course  of  time  have  become  con- 
nected, the  one  with  the  Gudrun,  the  other  with  the  Nibe- 
lungen  legend,  may  conclude  this  sketch  of  the  fierceness  of 
old  Germanic  life:  Wate,  Gudrun’s  most  devoted  champion, 
and  Hagen,  Siegfried's  murderer. 

Wate  seems  originally  to  have  been  a sea-god.  He  is  the 
son  of  a mermaid;  his  long  grizzly  beard  inspires  horror; 

when  he  blows  his  horn,  the  land  quivers,  the 
sea  foams  up,  and  the  walls  of  castles  totter. 
Gradually,  as  the  supernatural  in  him  receded,  he  became 
the  type  of  a wild,  indomitable,  irresistible  Viking.  In 
the  Gudrunlied  (beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century),  he 
appears  most  strikingly  on  three  different  occasions.  First, 
when  Hettel,  king  of  the  Danes,  has  sent  him  with  other 
vassals  to  sue  for  Hilde,  daughter  of  the  king  of  Ireland. 
He  is  introduced  to  the  ladies  of  the  royal  household,  and 
has  to  make  conversation.  Hilde  asks  him  jestingly  whether 
he  prefers  to  sit  and  chat  with  beautiful  women  or  to  fight 
in  the  wild  combat;  he  answers:  ‘‘One  thing  suits  me  best. 
Never  did  I sit  so  softly  with  beautiful  women  that  I would 
not  rather  with  good  knights  fight  in  many  a hard  combat.” 
Whereupon  the  girls  laugh  heartily. — Hilde  and  Hettel 
have  been  married,  their  daughter  Gudrun  has  grown  up  a 
beautiful  maiden,  the  Norsemen  have  carried  her  away,  the 
Danes  pursue  the  robbers:  now  Wate  steps  into  the  fore- 
ground for  the  second  time.^^  At  a low  island  near  the 
mouth  of  the  river  Scheldt  the  Norsemen  with  their  fair 
booty  are  overtaken,  and  here  a bloody  battle  is  fought, 
the  famous  battle  of  the  Wulpensand.  It  lasts  from  morn- 
ing till  night : not  so  quickly  do  snowflakes  sweep  from 
the  Alpine  mountains  as  the  spears  flew  hither  and  thither 


**  Cf.  Kudrun  ed.  E.  Martin  str.  340  ff.  lb,  sir,  882  ff.  921  ff. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS.  25 

that  day.  King  Hettel  himself  was  slain;  when  Wate  saw 
him  fall,  his  voice  roared  wildly,  and  like  the  evening 
red  the  helmets  were  seen  aglow  from  his  swift  strokes. 
Under  cover  of  the  night  the  Norsemen  escape,  and  the 
Danes  return  home  beaten  and  cast  down.  Usually,  when 
Wate  returned  from  a battle,  he  came  with  trumpet-sound 
and  glee.  Now  he  rode  still  and  silent  into  the  castle;  and 
when  the  people  thronged  around  him  and  asked  about 
their  friends,  he  answered:  ‘‘I  Avill  not  lie;  they  have  all 
been  slain.  Do  not  weep  and  wail,  from  death  no  one  re- 
turns; but  when  our  children  are  grown  men,  the  time  will 
come  for  revenge.” 

Fourteen  years  have  gone;  Gudrun  has  remained  a cap- 
tive of  the  Norsemen,  faithfully  preserving  in  exile  and 
misery  her  troth  plighted  to  king  Herwig  of  Sealand. 
Now  at  last  the  ships  of  the  rescuing  Danes  appear.  Wate 
leads  them;  he  is  fuming  with  long-repressed  rage  and 
thirst  for  fight. He  delights  in  the  coolness  of  the  night 
that  precedes  the  battle.  How  cheerful  the  air  is,”  he 
exclaims,  how  calm  and  refreshing  ! how  softly  the  moon 
shines  ! how  exalted  I feel !”  In  the  morning  he  blows  his 
horn  so  loud  that  it  is  heard  for  thirty  miles  along  the 
coast.  At  the  head  of  his  men  he  presses  into  the  crowd 
of  the  Norsemen.  Their  chief,  Hartmut,  makes  a stand 
against  him,  but  is  on  the  point  of  succumbing  to  his  blows 
when  Gudrun  observes  them  from  a window.  Moved  by 
womanly  pity,  she  calls  upon  her  lover  Herwig  to  save  Hart- 
mut, although  he  is  her  enemy,  from  the  fierce  Wate.  Her- 
wig delivers  her  message  to  Wate,  but  he  cries:  Out  of 

the  way,  Herwig  ! If  I obeyed  women,  I should  be  out  of 
my  mind.  If  I spared  our  enemies,  I should  have  to  re- 
proach myself.  He  shall  suffer  for  his  misdeeds.^^  And 
when  Herwig  tries  to  step  between  the  two,  he  receives 
such  a blow  from  the  old  fighter  that  he  staggers  and  falls. 


Kudrun  str.  1345  £f.  1491  ff. 


26  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  has  to  be  carried  from  the  field.  And  Wate  rages 
on  like  a war-god,  sparing  not  even  women  or  children,  and 
not  pausing  until  the  bloody  work  is  done. 

If  Wate,  as  Scherer  has  said,  impresses  us  as  a rude  ele- 
mental force,  we  find  in  Hagen,  added  to  this  physical 
power,  a mind  of  wonderful  keenness  and  fertility.’^  Even 
in  the  Walthariliedy  where  we  saw  him  as  Gun- 
Hagen.  ther’s  vassal,  he  stands  head  and  shoulders 
above  the  other  knights,  and  even  above  his  master.  But 
it  is  only  in  the  Nibelungenlied  that  his  character  comes 
out  in  all  its  dark  grandeur.  He  is  the  principal  figure  at 
the  court  of  Worms  before  Siegfried’s  arrival;  through  him 
Siegfried  falls;  and  after  Siegfried’s  death  he  at  once  assumes 
the  leadership  again.  When  the  messengers  come  from 
Kriernhild  and  Ezzel  (Attila)  to  invite  the  Nibelungs  to  the 
Hunnish  court,  he  immediately  feels  that  it  is  the  arm  of  re- 
venge stretching  out  for  him  and  his  accomplices  in  Sieg- 
fried’s murder.  But  he  is  too  proud  to  shun  the  conse- 
quences of  his  own  deeds.  He  himself  leads  the  armed 
host  on  their  journey  eastward,  he  knows  the  way,  he  is  the 
travellers’  help  and  comfort.  When  they  reach  the  Danube, 
he  finds  some  mermaids  sporting  in  the  river.  They 
prophesy  to  him  the  doom  that  awaits  the  Nibelungs  in  the 
land  of  the  Huns.  But  Hagen,  far  from  dissuading  his 
friends  from  proceeding  on  their  journey,  keeps  the  tidings  to 
himself  until  he  has  ferried  them  all  over  the  river.  Then 
he  breaks  the  ferryboat  to  pieces  and  calls  out  to  them^*: 
‘‘  None  of  us  will  return  home  from  the  land  of  the  Huns.” 

The  same  unflinching  spirit,  the  same  heroic  fanaticism, 
the  same  eagerness  to  challenge  fate  rather  than  await  it,  he 
preserves  throughout  the  awful  events  that  follow.  Kriem- 


Cf.  for  the  following  Uhland  /.  c.  307--314.  W.  Scherer,  Gesch, 
d.  d.  Litt,  p,  1 19  ff. 

Der  Nibelunge  NSt  ed.  Bartsch  str.  1526  ff. 

Ib.  str.  1761  ff.  1951  ff. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS, 


27 


hild  betrays  her  hatred  of  him  from  the  very  first  moment 
that  the  Nibelungs  have  arrived  at  her  court.  She  sees 
Hagen  and  his  comrade,  Volker  the  fiddler,  sitting  in  front 
of  the  palace;  followed  by  sixty  Huns  carrying  concealed 
weapons,  she  descends  from  the  hall  and  accosts  the  two 
men  in  a hostile  manner.  Hagen,  unmoved  and  coldly  de- 
fiant, keeps  his  seat,  placing  across  his  knees  the  sword 
which  he  took  away  from  Siegfried  when  he  slew  him.  And 
when  Kriemhild  at  the  sight  of  it  bursts  forth  into  passionate 
invectives,  he  answers:  Why  all  this  talk  ? Yes,  I,  Hagen, 

slew  Siegfried;  I am  guilty  of  all  this  evil;  let  him  avenge 
it  who  will,  man  or  woman.”  None  of  the  Huns  dare 
approach  him,  and  Kriemhild  has  to  resort  to  another  plan 
of  attack. 

The  Burgundian  yeomen,  who  have  been  quartered  sepa- 
rately from  their  masters,  are  fallen  upon  by  a large  crowd 
of  Huns,  and  treacherously  massacred.  One  of  them  es- 
capes, and  appears  covered  with  blood  in  the  hall  where 
the  Burgundian  and  Hunnish  princes  are  feasting  to- 
gether. When  Hagen  sees  him,  he  springs  to  his  feet  and 
shouts:  ‘‘Our  yeomen  have  been  foully  murdered.  Up, 
friends!  let  the  drinking-bout  begin!  ” And  striking  off  the 
head  of  Ezzel’s  young  son,  who  is  sitting  near  him  at  the 
table,  he  hurls  it  quivering  into  Kriemhild’s  lap.  From 
here  on,^®  his  only  aim  is  to  sell  his  life  dearly.  Like  a mad- 
man he  rages  through  the  hall,  striking  down  whoever  comes 
near  him.  At  night  Kriemhild,  who  with  Ezzel  and 
his  immediate  followers  has  withdrawn  from  the  palace, 
causes  it  to  be  set  on  fire.  The  heat  is  torturing;  the 
Nibelungen  heroes  with  difficulty  protect  themselves  from 
the  falling  brands;  but  Hagen  is  unshaken,  he  calls  upon 
his  friends  to  quench  their  thirst  with  blood.  “In  such  a 
heat,  it  is  better  than  wine,”  he  says.  At  last,  vanquished 
by  Dietrich  and  led  captive  before  Kriemhild,  he  refuses  to 


For  the  following  cf.  Der  Nibelunge  Not  sir,  2114  ff.  2367  ff. 


28  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERAl'URE. 


tell  her  where  Siegfried’s  treasure  is  concealed,  and  when 
she  holds  Gunther’s  bleeding  head  before  him,  he  exclaims: 
“ Now  it  has  come  to  pass  as  1 thought:  the  treasure  now 
no  one  knows  but  God  and  myself;  and  from  thee,  thou 
daughter  of  hell,  it  shall  forever  be  hidden! Thereupon 
with  Siegfried’s  sword  Kriemhild  severs  Hagen’s  head  from 
his  body. 

It  would  be  a grave  mistake  to  believe  the  life  of  the 
Germanic  heroes,  as  represented  in  epic  poetry,  an  uninter- 

n rupted  succession  of  combat  and  violence.  The 

Tne  finer  emo-  ^ ' 

tionsinGrer-  very  existence  of  this  poetry  is  a proof  that  the 
manic  life.  finer  emotions  were  by  no  means  lacking  in  this 
life.  The  historian  Procopius  tells  of  the  Vandal  king 
Gelimer,  that  in  surrendering  after  a long  and  cruel  siege 
to  the  Byzantine  general,  he  asked  as  a last  favour  from  his 
enemies  for  three  things:  a loaf  of  bread,  to  know  once 
more  how  it  tasted;  a sponge  to  cool  his  eyes  that  had  be- 
come dim  with  tears;  a harp  to  sing  his  misery.  The  same 
contrast  between  the  heroic  and  the  gentle,  between  fero- 
city and  sentiment,  between  wildness  and  artistic  grace,  per- 
vades the  epic  songs  of  this  time.  By  the  side  of  Wate, 
the  grim  warrior  of  the  Gudrun  saga,  stands  Horand  the 
singer,  not  less  heroic  than  he,  but  full  of  divine  inspira- 
tion and  melody.  He  has  been  taught  his  art  on  the  wild 
sea,”  probably  by  some  water-sprite;  and  when- he  sings,  the 
birds  grow  silent,  the  deer  of  the  forest  leave  their  pasture, 
the  worms  in  the  grass  cease  creeping,  the  fishes  stop  swim- 
ming, the  sick  and  the  well  lose  their  senses."^"  A similar 
trait  helps  to  relieve  even  the  atrociousness  of  the  fate  of 
the  Nibelungs.  King  Gunnar,  according  to  the  Norse 
traditions, has  a magic  gift  of  music.  Made  captive  by 
Atli  (Attila)  he  is  thrown  into  a snake-den,  his  hands  be- 


•29  Procopius  /.  c,  II,  6.  Kudrun  str,  388  ff. 

Cf.  Atlakvif>a  sir,  28  and  Atlamql  sir.  60  ; Eddalieder  ed.  F. 
j6nsson  II,  80.  89;  V<^lsungasaga  ed.  Bugge  c.  37. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 


29 


ing  chained.  But  he  strikes  the  harp  with  his  toes  so  won- 
der rally  that  women  weep,  warriors  are  unnerved,  the  beams 
of  the  building  burst,  and  the  snakes  fall  asleep — except  one 
viper  who  stings  the  hero  to  the  heart. 

As  to  the  moral  side  of  life,  there  can  be  no  question 
that  these  epics  bring  out  in  all  its  resplendent  beauty  at 
least  one  virtue,  the  same  which  helped  in  build-  Dietricli  von 
ing  up  the  tribal  monarchies  of  the  Migration  Bern, 
period:  the  virtue  of  personal  attachment  and  devotion. 
The  whole  legend  of  Dietrich  von  Bern  rests  on  the  idea  of 
faithful  allegiance  between  the  king  and  his  followers. 
Dietrich  has  sent  out  eight  of  his  men  to  win  a treasure. 
On  their  return,  they  fall  into  an  ambush  laid  by  the  in- 
sidious Ermenrich.  Night  and  day,  Dietrich  bewails  their 
loss  and  longs  to  die.  In  vain  he  offers  for  them  Ermen- 
rich’s  son  and  eighteen  hundred  men  whom  he  is  keeping 
as  hostages.  Ermenrich  threatens  to  kill  Dietrich’s  men, 
unless  he  cede  his  whole  realm  to  him.  And  Dietrich  an- 
swers:^^  Even  though  all  empires  of  the  world  were  mine, 
I would  rather  give  them  away  than  desert  my  dear  faithful 
thanes.”  He  keeps  his  word,  abandons  his  kingdom,  and 
goes  with  his  faithful  ones  into  exile. 

The  same  tone  underlies  the  Wolfdietrich  legend. 
Driven  from  his  inheritance,  cast  about  in  a life  of  struggle 

and  adventure,  Wolfdietrich  does  not  forget  his 
1 u ' 4.  V.  u 4.  £ Wolfdietricli. 

eleven  champions  at  home,  who  on  account  of 

their  fidelity  to  him  have  been  chained  and  imprisoned. 
One  night  he  gets  to  the  tower  where  they  lie  in  fetters; 
and  he  hears  their  wailing,  although  he  cannot  see  them, 
and  is  not  allowed  to  speak  to  them.  But  when  he  rides 
away,  he  claps  his  hands  and  shouts:  ‘‘ I am  not  dead 
and  the  faithful  men  recognise  the  hoof-tramps  of  his  horse, 


Cf.  Dietrichs  Flucht  ed.  E.  Martin  (^Deutsches  Heldenbuch  II) 

3784  ff. 

Cf.  Der  grosse  Wolfdieterich  ed.  A.  Holtzmann  str.  1312  ff. 


30  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

and  rejoice.  Here,  as  Uhland  has  finely  said,^^  faith  ap- 
pears as  a spiritual  bond,  a sense  in  the  darkness,  an  ever- 
wakeful  memory,  a nearness  beyond  time  and  space. 

In  the  Gudrun  saga,  it  is  loyalty  to  the  bonds  of 
love  and  kinship,  which  through  strife  and  death  leads 
to  victory.  Carried  away  from  her  ancestral 
home,  bereft  in  bloody  combat  of  her  father 
and  many  of  her  kin,  Gudrun  has  been  given  the  choice 
either  to  renounce  her  betrothed  and  to  wear  the  crown 
with  her  abductor,  or  to  submit  to  an  ignominious  ser- 
vitude. Her  choice  is  soon  made  : she  rejects  the  crown, 
and  chooses  thraldom.  Twice  seven  years  she  performs 
the  services  of  an  humble  housemaid,  and  bears  quietly 
the  contumelies  heaped  upon  her  by  a spiteful  mistress; 
twice  seven  years  no  smile  comes  upon  her  lips.  But 
when  at  last  the  deliverers  appear,  she  laughs  out  trium- 
phantly,^^ and  resumes  at  once  her  native  nobility  of  speech 
and  bearing. 

These  epic  impersonations  of  fidelity  and  allegiance  are 
too  numerous  and  conspicuous  to  be  overlooked.  And 

, . yet  there  is  danger  of  attaching  too  much 
rredominance  \ o o 

ofreckless  importance  to  them.  It  has  often  been  said 
passion.  dominating  ideal  of  old  Germanic  life 

was  faith.  It  seems,  however,  as  though,  applied  to  the 
period  of  the  Migrations,  this  statement  is  far  from  being 
true.  Faith,  allegiance,  devotion,  the  precious  inheritance 
of  a preceding  age,  undoubtedly  entered  as  factors  into  the 
life  of  the  time,  and  helped  to  bring  about  the  political  and 
moral  reconstruction  of  Europe.  But  the  strongest  incen- 
tive to  action,  at  least  on  the  part  of  the  leaders  of  the  peo- 
ple, seems  to  have  been  a primitive  love  of  power,  an  in- 
domitable desire  to  live  themselves  out,  an  instinctive 
impulse  to  reach  beyond  themselves.  The  historical  annals 


Z.  c.  234. 


Cf.  Kudrun  str.  1318  ff. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRA  TIONS,  3 1 

of  the  Migration  period,  as  was  pointed  out  before,  are 
stained  with  greed,  perfidy,  and  recklessness ; they  bring 
before  our  minds,  as  the  typical  figure  of  the  time,  the 
individual  cut  loose  from  social  bonds,  full  of  animal  vigour 
and  susceptibility,  keen-eyed  and  sharp-witted,  but  without 
any  moral  reserve,  obeying  the  momentary  impulse,  having 
no  higher  ideal  than  himself,  carrying  the  germ  of  ruin 
within  him. 

No  more  tragic  picture  of  this  self-destruction  of  the 
Germanic  race  in  its  striving  for  power  and  self-gratifica- 
tion has  been  preserved  to  us  than  the  saga  of 
Sigurd  and  Brynhild.  Guilt  marks  Sigurd’s 
path  from  the  very  beginning.  Before  he  wins 
the  fatal  treasure,  he  hears  from  the  dragon  who  hoards  it 
that  a curse  has  been  laid  upon  it  by  the  gods.  Without 
heeding  this  warning,  he  kills  the  dragon  and  lays  hand  on 
the  gold.  While  he  is  roasting  the  dragon’s  heart — his 
master  and  companion.  Regin,  lying  asleep  near  by — a 
drop  of  the  monster’s  blood  touches  his  lips  and  makes 
him  understand  the  language  of  the  birds.  He  hears 
them  say:  Beware,  Sigurd;  there  lies  Regin  thinking  how 

he  can  deprive  you  of  your  treasure;  you  had  better  kill 
him.”  And  so  Sigurd  kills  Regin,  and  drinks  his  and  the 
dragon’s  blood.^® 

Brynhild  also  bears  the  stamp  of  guilt  upon  her  face. 
She  is  a fallen  Valkyrie.  In  battle  she  has  defied  Odin’s 
order  by  putting  to  death  another  man  than  him  whom  she 
had  been  commanded  to  slay.  For  this  she  has  been  put 
to  sleep  amidst  the  flames.  When  Sigurd,  riding  through 
the  flames,  awakes  her,  she  greets  him  with  a passionate 
outburst  of  delight.*’'  Hail  to  thee.  Day  ! Hail  to  you. 
Sons  of  Day!  Hail  to  thee.  Night  and  thy  daughter  Earth  ! 
With  unresentful  eyes  look  upon  us  and  give  us  victory  ! 


Cf.  FdfnesmQl 4,  sir.  i.  2 ; Eddalieder  F.  J6nsson  II,  41. 
Cf.  Sigrdrifom^l  str,  i.  2 ; /.  c,  43. 


32  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITER  AT  C/RE, 


Hail  to  you,  Gods  ! Hail  to  you,  Goddesses  ! Hail  to 
thee,  fruit-bearing  field  ! Word  and  wisdom  give  to  us  two 
and  ever-healing  hands.'* 

They  are  united,  but  soon  Sigurd’s  evil  fate  drives  him 
on.  He  leaves  Brynhild,  and  not  only  forgets  her  in  the 
arms  of  Gudrun,  the  Nibelung  princess,  but,  disguised  as 
Gunnar,  even  forces  Brynhild  to  become  the  latter’s  wife. 
When  Brynhild  sees  him  again  at  the  court  of  the  Nibelungs, 
she  is  torn  with  wrath  and  jealousy.^®  Lonely  she  sat  when 
evening  came,  outside  of  the  house,  and  said  to  herself : ‘ Die 
I will,  or  have  Sigurd  in  my  arms.  I said  the  word,  but  now 
I repent  it.  His  wife  is  Gudrun,  and  I am  Gunnar’s.  Evil 
Norns  gave  us  long-lasting  pain.’  Often  she  went,  filled 
with  gloom,  over  the  ice-fields  and  glaciers  at  eventide,  when 
Sigurd  and  his  bride  were  lying  together.^^  Now  it  hap- 
pened^® that  one  day  the  two  queens  Brynhild  and  Gudrun 
were  bathing  together  in  the  Rhine.  Brynhild  would  not 
allow  Gudrun  to  go  into  the  water  further  up  stream 
than  she.  “ For  why,”  she  said,  ‘‘  should  I suffer  my  body 
to  be  touched  by  the  water  which  has  flowed  through  your 
hair;  since  my  husband  is  so  much  better  than  yours.” 
Gudrun  answered:  “ My  husband  is  so  noble  that  neither 
Gunnar  nor  any  one  else  can  equal  him.”  And  in  the  alter- 
cation which  followed,  she  betrayed  to  Brynhild  that  it  was 
Sigurd,  not  Gunnar,  who  made  her  Gunnar’s  wife.  Now 
Brynhild’s  wrath  knows  no  bounds.  She  incites  the 
Nibelungs  to  murder  Sigurd.  In  death  she  is  united  to 
him. 

It  will  now  be  understood  in  what  sense  the  Germanic 
epic  must  be  called  a poetical  reflection  of  the  time  of  the 
Migrations.  Certainly  not  in  the  sense  that  the  epic  poems 
contribute  anything  to  our  knowledge  of  actual  events  of 
that  time.  It  is  a remarkable  fact  that  the  two  greatest 

Cf.  Sigurparkvipaen  skamma  str.  6-9  ; /.  c,  55, 

Skdldskaparm^l  c,  45  ; Edda  Snorra  Sturlusonar  ed.  Th.  J6nsson 
p.  I2I. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  THE  MIGRATIONS. 


33 


events  of  the  epoch,  the  destruction  of  the  Roman  empire 
and  the  adoption  of  Christianity  by  the  Germanic  race,  are 
not  mentioned  by  a single  word  in  the  whole  range  of  this 
poetry.  And  of  the  frequent  and  strange  distortions  of 
actual  history  which  occur  in  it  we  have  had  sufficient 
proof.  And  yet  the  Germanic  epic,  as  well  as  the  histori- 
cal annals  of  the  time,  tells  its  tale  of  the  Migrations  of  the 
peoples.  It  speaks  to  us  of  the  greed  and  savagery  of  those 
German  adventurers  who  terrorized  Roman  cities  and 
made  Roman  emperors  tremble.  It  brings  to  our  mind 
the  record  of  many  a German  chieftain  who,  cut  loose  from 
the  belief  of  his  own  ancestors  and  not  yet  firmly  rooted 
in  the  new  creed,  plunged  a whole  tribe  into  ruin  by  his 
lust  and  recklessness.  But  it  also  tells  us  of  the  indomitable 
energy,  the  dauntless  courage,  the  self-sacrificing  devotion, 
and  the  deep  sense  of  moral  justice  which,  through  all  the 
tumult  and  uproar  of  those  times,  remained  the  priceless 
heritage  of  the  German  race,  and  which,  when  the  floods 
of  that  great  revolution  had  passed  away,  helped,  under  the 
guidance  of  Christian  ideas,  to  develop  a better  and  nobler 
state  of  national  existence. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY 
AND  FEUDALISM. 

(From  the  Ninth  to  the  Middle  of  the  Twelfth  Century.) 

The  period  of  German  history  from  the  middle  of  the 
ninth  to  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century — embracing  the 
^ dismemberment  of  the  universal  Carolindan 

of  papacy  and  monarchy  ; the  growth,  under  the  Saxon  and 
empire.  Frankish  dynasties,  of  a distinctively  German 
nation;  the  struggle,  at  the  time  of  Henry  IV.,  between 
church  and  state  ; and  the  beginning  of  the  crusades — is  an 
age  of  political  organization  and  consolidation.  The  two 
great  institutions  which  had  emerged  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
Migration  period  as  the  controlling  forces  of  European 
life,  the  Roman  church  and  the  Germanic  state,  are  now 
assuming  a more  distinct  form  and  gradually  define  their 
spheres  of  influence. 

A remarkable  contrast  in  the  development  of  these  two 
powers  at  once  claims  our  attention. 

Ever  since  the  western  Christian  church  had  come  to 
The  centraliz-  recognise  the  bishop  of  Rome  as  its  supreme 
ofthemedi^^^^  head,  the  guiding  principle  of  its  policy  had 
8Bval  chtiTcli.  been  centralization  without  regard  to  nation- 
ality. Everything  conspired  to  make  this  policy  suc- 
cessful. It  proceeded  from  the  very  spirit  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  which  addresses  itself  to  all  humanity  and 
proclaims  the  spiritual  kinship  of  all  races.  It  gained 
powerful  support  from  the  traditional  reverence  of  the 
European  nations  for  the  name  of  that  great  empire — the 
Roman — which  had  been  the  first  embodiment,  if  not 
of  the  brotherhood,  at  least  of  the  unity  of  humankind, 

34 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  35 

and  whose  political  aspirations,  methods  of  government 
and  even  language  were  now  adopted  by  the  church,  its 
successor.  It  was  advocated  and  impersonated  by  a 
remarkable  number  of  men  of  genius  and  enthusiasm,  from 
St.  Augustine  (d.  430),  who  in  his  Civitas  Dei  depicted  in 
glowing  colours  the  joys  of  a spiritual  existence  lifted  high 
above  the  barriers  and  distinctions  of  the  visible  world, 
down  to  pope  Gregory  VII.  (d.  1085),  who  during  his  strug- 
gle with  the  German  crown  opposed  to  the  variety  of  na- 
tional and  temporal  interests  the  supreme  law  of  the  one 
indivisible  and  all-transcendent  church.  It  was  put  into 
practice  and  carried  out  in  detail  through  a hierarchy  of 
most  elaborate  organization  and  machinery,  and  yet, 
through  all  its  manifold  gradations  of  archbishop,  bishop, 
canons,  priests,  and  monks,  directed  by  one  command  and 
given  over  to  one  service, — the  most  formidable  intellectual 
army  which  the  world  has  seen. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  political  life  of  the  time  more 
and  more  drifted  towards  decentralization.  To  be  sure, 
the  empire  founded  by  Charles  the  Great  was  The  decentral- 

meant  by  its  creator  to  be,  in  a still  more  direct  ifng  tenden- 

. . cies  of  the  me- 

sense  than  the  church,  a continuation  of  the  old  diaval  state. 

Roman  empire.  Its  boundaries  reached  almost  as  far  as 
the  dominion  of  the  church  ; its  claims  of  sovereignty  were 
quite  as  universal.  But  this  empire  was  rather  the  creation 
of  a gigantic  personality  than  a natural  growth,  and  after 
the  death  of  its  founder  (814)  it  soon  passed  away  also. 
In  its  place  there  arose  a variety  of  race  confederations, 
which  in  course  of  time  developed  into  the  three  leading 
nations  of  continental  Europe:  the  German,  the  French, 
and  the  Italian.  And  even  within  these  new  national  units 
there  was  no  power  which  exercised  as  undisputed  and 
general  an  influence  as  the  church.  As  in  all  primitive 
periods,  when  no  uniform  medium  of  exchange  has  as  yet 
been  established,  the  state  officials  in  the  Carolingian  mon- 
archy were  paid,  not  in  money,  but  by  the  transference  of 


36  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


power, — power  over  the  produce  of  a certain  tract  of  land, 
power  over  the  property  and  the  lives  of  a certain  number 
of  people.  This  temporary  delegation  of  sovereign  rights  to 
crown  officials — the  root  of  mediaeval  feudalism — in  course 
of  time  became  a permanent  one,  and  by  the  middle  of  the 
eleventh  century  the  principle  had  become  fairly  established 
that  rights  acquired  in  this  way  should  be  hereditary.  The 
consequence  was  that,  as  contrasted  with  the  all-pervading, 
uniform,  impersonal  authority  of  the  church,  the  state  of 
that  time  represented  a great  variety  of  small,  secondary 
sovereignties,  based  on  local  tradition  and  personal  privi- 
leges, loosely  held  together  by  common  descent  and  a cer- 
tain degree  of  allegiance  to  the  nominal  source  of  all  tem- 
poral sovereignty,  the  king. 

At  the  time  of  Charles  the  Great,  church  and  state  were 
in  the  main  co-ordinated  and  closely  allied.  The  emperor 

Conflict  be-  own  sphere,  were 

tween  cburcb  considered  as  the  two  equal  sovereigns  of  all 
and  state.  Christendom.  They  were  the  two  fountain-heads 
from  which  the  light  of  divine  justice  and  mercy  flowed 
out  over  all  humanity  ; they  were  the  two  swords,  the  spi- 
ritual and  the  worldly,  with  which  the  conflict  of  heaven 
against  the  powers  of  darkness  was  to  be  waged.  With  the 
decay  of  the  Carolingian  empire,  however,  this  relation  of  the 
two  powers  to  each  other  began  to  be  disturbed.  The  ninth 
century,  the  period  of  ferment  in  the  development  of  the  new 
nationalities,  is  characterized  by  an  utter  lack  of  any  domi- 
nating or  even  preponderating  secular  power  ; this  century, 
therefore,  sees  the  pope  as  arbitrator  between  kings  and 
nations,  as  a leading  factor  in  European  politics.  There 
follows  a reaction  in  the  tenth  century.  Under  the  reign 
of  the  sturdy  Saxon  dynasty  the  foundations  of  a truly 
national  German  state  are  laid,  and  at  once  an  attempt  is 
made  on  the  part  of  this  state  to  reunite  the  German  king- 
dom and  the  universal  empire.  Otto  I.  is  crowned  at  Rome 
as  the  successor  of  Charles  the  Great  (962).  On  the 


MEDIAEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  3/ 


Strength  of  his  imperial  dignity  he  not  only  deposes  one 
pope  and  directs  the  election  of  another  : he  even  makes 
the  clergy  the  chief  instrument  of  the  feudal  organization 
of  the  German  state.  But  this  combination  of  the  highest 
political  and  ecclesiastical  authority  in  the  hands  of  the 
German  king  is  of  short  duration.  In  the  eleventh  century, 
during  the  reign  of  the  Frankish  dynasty,  the  untenable 
position  of  the  clergy — as  in  the  service  both  of  the  pope 
and  the  emperor,  of  the  pope  as  keepers  of  souls,  of 
the  emperor  as  holders  of  land — brings  about  a conflict 
between  papacy  and  empire  (1075-1122)  which  plunges 
Germany  into  a fierce  civil  war  ; stirs  up  the  public  opinion 
of  Europe  in  a manner  unheard  of  before;  humiliates  in 
turn  the  emperor  before  the  pope,  and  the  pope  before  the 
emperor,  and  finally  ends  with  a compromise  favourable 
to  the  papacy,  by  theoretically  separating  the  spiritual 
and  temporal  functions  of  the  clerical  office,  practically, 
however,  putting  the  clergy  under  the  exclusive  control  of 
the  Roman  bishop.  About  the  same  time  the  ascendency 
of  the  church  reaches  its  climax  in  the  great  movement  of 
the  crusades,  which  is  both  the  result  and  the  cause  of  a 
most  extraordinary  popular  outburst  of  religious  enthusiasm, 
and  which  raises  the  pope  to  the  undisputed  leadership  of 
all  Europe  united  in  a holy  warfare. 

These,  then,  in  a general  way,  were  the  social  and  intel- 
lectual conditions  under  which  German  literature  developed 
during  the  first  centuries  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

On  the  one  hand,  the  soaring  idealism  of  an  all-  tween  t^r 
embracing  church,  preaching,  if  not  always  prac-  spiritual  and 
tising,  the  abnegation  of  the  flesh,  the  essential  worldly, 
vanity  of  earthly  things,  the  nothingness  of  human  greatness  ; 
resting  on  the  deep-rooted  belief  of  the  human  mind  in  the 
indestructibility  of  things  spiritual,  and  the  eternal  longing 
of  the  human  heart  for  a better  world  beyond  the  grave. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  sturdy  realism  of  a youthful  people 
settling  down  to  the  practical  business  of  the  day  ; turning 


38  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


the  glebe  of  a virgin  soil,  and  at  the  same  time  constantly 
in  arms  against  inner  and  outer  foes  ; taking  the  first  steps 
in  working  out  a national  state,  but  also  jealously  watching 
over  the  maintenance  of  individual  rights  and  privileges  ; 
living  in  close  communion  with  nature  and  enjoying  the 
sights  of  the  visible  world  ; pre-eminently  given  over  to  the 
present,  to  things  tangible  and  near  at  hand.  It  will  be  our 
task  to  see  how  the  literature  of  the  time  reflected  these 
Effect  of  these  great  tendencies;  how  it  gave  expression, 
conflicts  upon  now  to  the  aspirations  of  the  church,  now  to 
literature.  patriotic  sentiment  ; how  it  stood  in  turn  for 
the  worldly  and  the  spiritual,  the  real  and  the  ideal  ; and 
how  towards  the  end  of  the  period  it  helped  in  opening  the 
way  for  reconciling  and  combining  both  these  principles. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
period  there  stands  a work  which  in  a singular  degree  is 
both  real  and  ideal,  national  and  religious  ; a 
Heljand.  work  reminding  us,  in  the  ruggedness  of  its  alli- 
terative form  and  the  robustness  of  its  descriptions,  of  old 
Germanic  hero-life,  but  at  the  same  time,  by  the  whole 
drift  of  its  thought,  pointing  forward  to  a higher  moral 
plane  than  that  afforded  by  the  epics  of  the  preceding  age  : 
the  Old-Saxon  poem  Heljand  or  The  RedeemeVy  written 
about  830  at  the  suggestion  of  the  emperor  Ludwig  the 
Pious,  by  a Saxon  priest,  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  open- 
ing the  obdurate  ears  of  his  countrymen  to  the  message  of 
Christianity. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  this  poem,  based  as  it  is  on 

Eealistic  clia  Harmony  of  the  represents  the 

racteroftlie  most  complete  absorption  of  the  Christian  tradi- 
poem.  German  mind,  the  most  perfect  blend- 

ing of  Christian  ideas  and  German  forms  of  expression 


^ Which  in  its  turn  goes  back  to  a work  of  the  Syrian  Tatianus 
(second  century).  Cf.  GdgPh,  II,  i,  241.  For  the  Old-Saxon  Genesis 
cf.  Koegel  l.c.  288a  ff.  F.  Vetter,  D.  neuentdeckte  deutsche  Bibeldichtg 
d,  <^ten  Jhdts, 


MEDIAEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  39 

before  the  time  of  Diirer.  The  same  acclimatization  of 
sacred  history  to  German  soil  which  gives  to  the  religious 
paintings  of  the  fifteenth  century  such  a wonderful, 
homely  charm,  we  find  in  this  poem  of  the  ninth  century. 
Christ  himself  is  conceived  of  as  the  ideal  Germanic  king. 
He  is  the  ruler  of  the  land,  the  folklord,  the  giver  of  rings, 
the  leader  of  the  armed  host,  bold  and  strong,  mighty  and 
renowned.  With  his  twelve  warlike  thanes  he  travels  over 
the  land,  from  Bethlehemburg  to  Nazarethburg  and  Je- 
rusalemburg,  everyw’here  pledging  the  people  to  his  alle- 
giance. The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  given  as  the  speech 
of  a warrior-king  before  his  faithful  followers.^  The  people 
gather  and  place  themselves  around  him,  “ silently  expect- 
ing what  the  lord,  the  ruler,  is  going  to  reveal  to  them  with 
his  own  words,  a joy  to  them  all.”  And  he  himself  “sat 
and  was  silent  and  looked  at  them  for  a long  time,”  and 
finally  “ opened  his  lips  and  spoke  wise  words  to  the  men 
whom  he  had  called  to  the  thing"'  The  marriage-feast  in 
Cana  becomes  a picture  of  a drinking-bout  in  a royal  ban- 
quet-hall, where  the  cup-bearers  go  about  with  bumpers 
and  jugs  filled  with  limpid  wine,  the  joy  of  the  people 
resounds  from  the  benches,  the  warriors  are  revelling.® 
The  air  of  the  North  Sea  breathes  in  the  description  of  the 
storm  on  the  Lake  of  Tiberias.'^  “ The  sails  hoisted  the 
weatherwise  men,  and  let  the  wind  drive  them  into  the 
middle  of  the  sea.  Then  fearful  weather  came  up,  a storm 
gathered,  the  waves  rose,  darkness  burst  upon  darkness,  the 
sea  was  in  uproar,  wind  battled  with  water.”  The  scene  of 
Christ’s  capture  by  the  Jews  gives  an  opportunity  for  grati- 
fying the  Germanic  love  of  fighting.  Even  here  Christ 
appears  less  a martyr  than  a hero  who,  even  though  betrayed 
and  forsaken,  m.akes  his  enemies  tremble.  And  hardly  any 
situation  is  dwelt  upon  with  such  apparent  delight  as  when 


^ Heliand  ed.  Sievers  v.  1279  ff. 

2 Ib.  V.  2006  ff.  ^ Ib,  V.  2239  ff. 


40  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LIT  ERA  TURE. 


^‘the  swift  warrior**  Peter  smites  off  Malchus*  ear/  Then 
became  enraged  the  swift  sword-thane,  Simon  Peter  ; his 
wrath  welled  up,  he  could  not  speak  a word,  so  deeply  it 
grieved  him  that  they  wanted  to  bind  the  Lord.  Fiercely 
he  went,  the  bold  thane,  to  stand  in  front  of  his  liege  lord. 
Not  wavering  was  his  heart  nor  sh^^  hi^^  bosom.  At  once 
he  drew  the  sword  from  his  side  and  smote  the  foremost  of 
the  foes  with  full  force  so  that  Malchus  was  reddened  with 
the  sword’s  edge  on  the  right  side,  his  ear  hewn  off,  his 
cheek  gashed,  blood  leaped  forth,  welling  from  the  wound. 
And  the  people  dr^w  brek,  fearing  the  nword-bite.” 

There  ii:  reason  to  believe  that  two  other  poetical  ver- 
sions of  biblical  subjects,  contemporary  with  Heljand^  of 
Muspilli-  which,  however,  only  fragments  have  been  pre- 
Wessobrunn  served  to  US,  showed  this  same  blending  of 
Prayer.  Christian  and  Germanic  conceptions  which  is  seen 
in  the  Heljand.  One  of  these  fragments,  the  so-called  Wes^ 
sohrunn  Prayer  (c.  800),®  describes  the  creation  of  the  world 
in  a manner  remarkably  similar  to  the  cosmogony  of  the  Elder 
Edda,  The  other,  the  so-called  Muspilli  (c.  850),'  depicts 
the  last  judgment  in  words  which  cannot  fail  to  suggest  the 
old  Germanic  idea  of  the  conflagration  of  the  world/  “ The 


® Heliand  v.  4865  ff. 

® It  was  found  in  a codex  of  the  Bavarian  monastery  Wessobrunn, 
which  contains  among  other  things  an  exposition  of  the  seven  liberal 
arts,  the  verses  on  the  world’s  creation  being  introduced  as  a speci- 
men of  poetical  diction.  The  beginning  {MSD.  I,  i.  Piper,  /.  c. 
p.  139)  reads  : “This  I learned  among  men  as  the  greatest  of  won- 
ders that  once  there  was  no  earth  nor  sky  nor  tree  nor  hill  nor  brook 
nor  the  shining  sun  nor  the  glistening  moon  nor  the  glorious  sea.” 
compare  with  this  Vg^ospg  str.  3 ; Eddalieder  ed.  F.  J6nsson  I,  i. 
Cf. , however,  Kelle,  Gesck,  d.  d.  Litt.  p.  75  ff. 

This  name  was  given  to  it  by  Schmeller,  the  first  editor  of  the 
fragment,  on  account  of  the  word  mfispilli  = earth-destruction  occur- 
ring in  it. 

® z/  51  ff.  ; MSD.  I,  10,  Piper  /.  c.  p.  154.  Compare  V<^losp^  str, 
39,  /.  c,  7.  Cf.  Kdgel,  Gesch,  d.  d,  Litt,  I,  324  f. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM^  4I 

mountains  take  fire,  not  a tree  remains  standing  on  the 
earth,  the  waters  run  dry,  the  sea  is  swallowed  up,  the 
heavens  stand  ablaze,  the  moon  falls,  Midgard  is  aglow/' 

These  expressions,  however,  in  the  ninth  century,  of  old 
Germanic  conceptions  and  ideals  in  the  midst  of  Christian 
surroundings,  were  only  a remnant  of  a time 
gone  by,  a last  offshoot,  as  it  were,  of  the  great 
pan-Germanic  uprising  which  had  received  its 
final  political  form  in  the  Carolingian  empire.  As  the  century 
passes  on,  bringing  in  its  train  the  gradual  dismemberment 
of  that  empire  and  the  gradual  but  steady  growth  and  ex- 
pansion of  the  Roman  church,  literature  also  assumes  more 
and  more  an  exclusively  clerical  appearance. 

The  most  striking  example^  of  this  change  in  the  literary 
taste  of  the  time  is  a poetical  story  of  Christ’s  otfiddof 
life  by  the  monk  Otfrid  of  Weissenburg  in  Weissenbnrg, 
Alsace  (c.  868). 

The  very  fact  that  Otfrid's  work — The  Book  of  the  Gos~ 
pels  in  the  Vernacular^  as  he  calls  it  himself — is  known  as 
the  first  specimen  of  rhymed  verse  in  German 
literature,  is  significant  of  the  tendency  of  that 
time.  Otfrid’s  personal  reason  for  discarding  alliterative 
verse  and  adopting  rhyme  in  its  stead  was  his  hatred  of 
what  he  calls^®  ‘‘  the  obscene  songs  of  the  laymen,"  i.e.,  the 


^ The  same  prevalence  of  Christian  over  Germanic  conceptions 
which  marks  Otfrid’s  poem  is  found  in  the  so-called  Ludwigslied 
{MSD,  I,  24  ff.  Piper  /.  c.  258  ff.),  a song  of  triumph  written  in  881 
by  a Frankish  ecclesiastic  to  celebrate  the  victory,  in  the  battle  of  Sau- 
court,  of  the  West-Frankish  king  over  an  army  of  piratical  Norsemen. 
The  inroad  of  the  Norsemen  appears  here  as  a visitation  sent  by  God 
to  try  the  king’s  heart  ; and  the  Frankish  army  enters  the  battle  sing- 
ing a Kyrie  eleison.  Cf.  E.  Diimmler,  Gesch.  des  osi frank.  Reiches’^ 
III,  T52  ff.  Kelle /.  c.  p.  177. 

Otfrid’s  Evangdienbuch  ed.  Erdmann,  f>raef.  ad  Liutbertum  5. — 
Otfrid  was  a disciple  of  Hrabanus  Maurus,  abbot  of  Fulda  and  arch- 
bishop of  Mainz,  the  foremost  representative  of  clerical  learning 
among  the  Germans  of  the  ninth  century. 


42  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


popular  epic  ballads.  As  these  still  preserved  the  alliter- 
ative measure,  Otfrid  could  not  have  marked  his  opposi- 
tion to  them  more  effectively  than  by  introducing  a poeti- 
cal form  hallowed  by  the  example  of  the  great  hymn-writers 
of  the  Latin  church.  But  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
alliterative  verse  itself  in  the  middle  of  the  ninth  century 
had  already  begun  to  decay,  and  to  lose  its  hold  upon  the 
people  at  large.  Limited  as  it  was  to  the  portrayal  of  a 
primitive,  sturdy,  unreflective  life,  it  would  have  given  way, 
even  without  Otfrid's  initiative,  to  a poetic  form  better 
adapted  to  the  emotional,  reflective,  spiritual  state  of  mind 
which  now  was  in  the  ascendency,  and  which  Otfrid  him- 
self so  well  represents. 

Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  his  way  of  looking 
at  things  than  the  division  of  his  work  into  five  books 
and  his  justification  of  it.  “Although,”  he  says,“ 
Absence  of  “there  are  only  four  gospels,  I have  divided 
the  narrative  of  Christ’s  life  into  five  books,  be- 
cause they  are  intended  to  purify  our  five  senses.  What- 
ever sin,  through  sight,  smell,  touch,  taste,  and  hearing,  we 
are  led  to  commit,  we  can  purge  our  corruption  through 
reading  these  books.  Let  vulgar  sight  be  blinded,  our  in- 
ternal eye  being  illumined  by  evangelic  words  ; let  vile 
hearing  cease  to  be  harmful  to  our  heart ; let  smell  and 
taste  be  made  susceptible  to  Christian  sweetness  ; let  the 
touch  of  memory  always  rest  on  sacred  lessons.”  Only, 
then,  as  revelations  of  some  deeper  religious  truth  have  the 
phenomena  of  outward  life  any  interest  for  Otfrid.  He 
altogether  lacks  that  delight  in  the  surface  of  things,  that 
sympathy  with  the  visible  world,  that  joy  in  mere  being  and 
doing,  which  more  than  anything  else  makes  the  epic  poet. 
Consequently  his  descriptions  of  actual  scenes  are  far  in- 
ferior to  those  in  the  Heljand.  The  turning  of  the  water 
into  wine  at  the  marriage-feast  in  Cana,  which  in  the  Saxon 


“ Otfrid  45. 


MEDIAiVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  43 


poem  is  filled  with  the  uproarious  joy  of  Germanic  holiday 
life,  is  introduced  by  Otfrid  with  the  dry  remark 
‘‘  Meanwhile  the  beverage  gave  out,  and  there  was  a lack  of 
wine/*  The  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  which  to  his  predeces- 
sor gave  an  opportunity  of  presenting  an  impressive  picture 
of  a large  popular  gathering,  Otfrid  prefaces  by  saying 
“ When  the  Lord  saw  the  multitude  coming  together,  he 
received  them  with  kind  eyes  and  went  to  a mountain,  and 
when  he  sat  down  his  disciples  stepped  up  to  him,  as  was 
their  duty.  And  he  opened  his  mouth  and  imparted  to 
them  the  greatest  of  treasures.*’ 

But  this  lack,  in  Otfrid,  of  descriptive  power  and  epic 
emphasis  is  outweighed,  on  the  other  hand,  by  a sweetness 
and  tenderness  of  the  inner  life  of  which  the 
author  of  the  Heljand  knew  nothing.  It  is  in  ^^1^®^  of  the 
Otfrid’s  poem  that  we  first  meet  those  beauti- 
ful, idyllic  pictures  of  the  Annunciation,  of  Christ*s  birth, 
of  the  Chant  of  the  Shepherds,  and  other  scenes  of  the 
Saviour*s  youth,  in  nearly  the  same  form  in  which  later 
they  became  the  favourite  subjects  of  mediaeval  poets, 
painters,  and  sculptors.  Even  the  master  of  the  Cologne 
altar-piece  does  not  excel  in  naive  gracefulness  and  inno- 
cence the  description  by  Otfrid  of  Gabriel’s  entrance  into 
the  Virgin’s  chamber‘d  “ There  came  a messenger  from 
God,  an  angel  from  heaven,  he  brought  to  this  world 
precious  tidings.  He  flew  the  sun’s  path,  the  road  of  the 
stars,  the  way  of  the  clouds  to  the  sacred  Virgin,  the  noble 
mistress,  Mary  herself.  He  went  into  the  palace  and  found 
her  in  sadness,  the  psalm-book  in  her  hand,  singing  from 
it,  working  embroidery  of  costly  cloth.  And  he  spoke  to 
her  reverently,  as  a man  shall  speak  to  a woman,  a mes- 
senger to  his  mistress  : ^ Hail  to  thee,  lovely  maiden,  beau- 
tiful virgin,  of  all  women  dearest  to  God.  Do  not  tremble 
in  thy  heart,  nor  turn  the  colour  of  thy  face  ; thou  art  full  of 


2*  Otfrid  II,  8,  II. 


13  Ib,  II,  15,  13  ff. 


Ib.  I,  5,  3 ff. 


44  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  grace  of  God.  The  prophets  have  sung  of  thee,  blissful 
one,  all  the  worlds  they  have  turned  towards  thee,  of  old. 
Immaculate  gem,  O beautiful  maiden,  the  dearest  of 
mothers  thou  shalt  be  ! ’ No  poet  has  sung  more  touch- 
ingly than  the  Weissenburg  monk  of  Mary’s  joy  in  nursing 
her  baby/^  With  delight  she  gave  him  her  virgin’s  breast, 
not  did  she  avoid  showing  that  she  was  suckling  him.  Hail 
to  the  breast  which  Christ  himself  has  kissed,  and  to  the 
mother  who  spoke  to  him  and  covered  him.  Hail  to  her 
who  rocked  him  and  held  him  in  her  lap,  who  sweetly  put 
him  to  sleep,  and  laid  him  beside  her.  Blessed  she  who 
clothed  him  and  swaddled  him  and  who  lay  in  the  same 
bed  with  such  a child.” 

And  even  the  frequent  symbolic  interpretations  which 
Otfrid  is  so  fond  of  adding  to  his  narrative,  and  which 
have  given  so  much  offence  to  his  modern  critics, 
SymlDolism.  least  how  deeply  imbued  this  earnest 

soul  was  with  spiritual  problems,  and  how  devotedly  he 
clung  to  the  ideals  of  his  life.  Who  would,  for  instance, 
dare  to  ridicule  the  following  contemplation,  occasioned  by 
the  mention  of  the  fact  that  the  Magi  returned  home  on  a 
different  road  from  that  which  they  had  travelled  in  search 
of  Bethlehem^®  ? — 

“ By  this  journey  we  also  are  admonished  to  think  of  the  return  to 
our  native  land.  Our  native  land  is  Paradise,  the  land  where  there  is 
life  without  death,  light  without  darkness,  and  eternal  joy.  We  have 
left  it,  lost  it  through  trespassing  ; our  heart’s  wanton  desire  seduced 
us.  Now  we  are  weeping,  exiled  in  a foreign  land.  O foreign 
land,  how  hard  thou  art,  how  heavy  to  bear  ! In  sorrow  live  those 
who  are  away  from  home.  I have  felt  it  myself.  No  other  good  1 
found  abroad  than  sadness,  a woeful  heart  and  manifold  pain.  So 
then,  like  the  Magi,  let  us  take  another  road,  the  path  that  brings  us 
back  to  our  own  native  land.  That  lovely  path  demands  pure  leet  , 
and  if  thou  wishest  to  tread  it,  let  humility  live  in  thy  heart  and  tru?* 
love,  for  evermore.  Give  thyself  up  joyfully  to  abstinence  ; do  not 
listen  to  thy  own  will ; into  the  pureness  of  thy  heart  let  not  the  lust 


Otfrid  I,  II,  37 


13.  I,  i8. 


MEDIEVAL  HIEEAECHY  AND  EEUDALISM.  45 


of  the  world  enter  ; flee  the  sight  of  present  things.  Lo,  this  is  the 
other  path.  Tread  the  path,  it  will  bring  thee  home.** 

The  tenth  and  the  first  half  of  the  eleventh  century,  as 
was  said  before,  are  marked  by  an  intense  national  move- 
ment: under  Henry  L (9i9“936)  an  independent,  Eealistic cha- 
distinctively  German  kingdom  is  founded;  Otto 
I.  (936-973)  adds  to  this  the  revived  imperial  tore  of  the 
dignity;  Henry  III.  (1039-1056)  appears  as  the 
acknowledged  master  of  Europe.  But  this  re-  turies. 
newed  national  life  bears  an  unmistakably  ecclesiastical 
stamp.  The  monasteries,  such  as  St.  Gallen,  Reichenau, 
Fulda,  Gandersheim,  are  the  principal  seats  of  learning  and 
culture  ; the  archbishoprics  and  bishoprics,  such  as  Mainz, 
Trier,  Koln,  Metz,  Speier,  Constanz,  Regensburg,  Hildes- 
heim,  are  the  main  centres  of  commercial  and  political 
activity;  the  clergy  are  the  chief  support  and  stay  of  the 
central  government,  intimately  connected  with  the  every-day 
life  of  the  people,  in  close  contact  with  its  work  and  its  joys 
in  field  and  market-place.  This  state  of  things  brings  about 
a new  turn  in  the  intellectual  development  and  gives  to  the 
literature  of  the  period  its  peculiar,  double-faced  appear- 
ance. It  makes  monks  the  biographers  of  kings,  it  opens 
the  gates  of  nunneries  to  Ovid’s  Ars  amandi  and  the 
realistic  Roman  comedy;  it  calls  forth  a numerous  class  of 
writings  devoted  to  those  very  subjects  from  which  Otfrid 
had  turned  away  in  holy  horror : scenes  of  actual,  present 
life,  but  couched  in  Latin,  the  language  of  the  learned.  It 
produces,  in  short,  a clerical  literature  which,  to  a very  large 
extent  at  least,  is  decidedly  unclerical ; it  gives  place  within 
the  ranks  of  the  clergy  themselves  to  a reaction  of  the 
national,  sensual,  real,  against  the  universal,  spiritual,  ideal. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  figures  at  the  court  of  Otto  I. 
is  Liudprand,  bishop  of  Cremona,  a Lombard 
by  birth,  well  versed  in  affairs,  indefatigable 
in  diplomatic  machinations  and  intrigues,  of 
a passionate,  ambitious,  vindictive  temper.  In  968  he 


46  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


was  sent  by  his  master  on  a diplomatic  mission  to  the 
Byzantine  emperor,  Nicephorus.  This  mission  entirely 
failed;  Liudprand  was  not  even  treated  with  a minimum  of 
international  courtesy;  he  was,  as  we  should  say,  given  the 
cold  shoulder  both  by  the  emperor  and  his  courtiers.  On 
his  return,  he  wrote  a report  of  his  stay  at  Constantinople 
which  in  tartness  of  expression,  bitterness  of  invective,  and 
grotesqueness  of  caricature  ranks  among  the  most  remark- 
able documents  of  mediaeval  literature. 

This  is  the  description  which  Liudprand  gives  of  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  Byzantine  emperor  ” : 

‘‘  On  the  holy  Whitsunday,  in  the  Hall  of  Coronation,  I was  brought 
before  Nicephorus,  a man  of  most  extraordinary  appearance,  a pygmy 
with  a swollen  head  and  small  eyes  like  those  of  a mole,  disfigured  by 
a short,  broad,  thick  grayish  beard,  with  a neck  about  an  inch  long. 
His  long  dense  hair  gives  him  the  appearance  of  a hog,  in  com- 
plexion he  looks  like  an  -Ethiopian;  he  is  one  of  those  whom  you 
wouldn't  care  to  meet  at  midnight.  Moreover,  he  has  a puffed-up 
paunch,  thin  hips,  disproportionately  long  shanks,  and  short  legs. 
Only  his  feet  are  in  good  proportion.  He  was  dressed  in  a precious 
state  garment,  which,  however,  from  old  age  and  long  use  was  faded 
and  had  a very  musty  smell.” 

And  the  following  is  the  picture  he  draws  of  one  of  the 
great  occasions  in  Byzantine  court  life,  the  solemn  Pentecost 
procession  of  the  emperor  to  the  Hagia  Sophia^®: 

**  A large  crowd  of  merchants  and  other  common  people  had  gathered 
for  the  reception  of  Nicephorus  and  stood  like  walls  on  both  sides  of 
the  street  from  the  palace  to  the  cathedral,  disfigured  by  small  thin 
shields  and  miserable-looking  lances.  The  contemptibleness  oi 


Liudprand!  Relatio  de  legatione  Constantinopol.  ed.  Diimmler  c.  3. 

Ib.  c.  9.  10. — That  Liudprand  in  spite  of  his  Italian  extraction 
and  surroundings  (cf.  Wattenbach  Geschichtsquellen  ® I,  391)  had  a most 
pronounced  Germanic  race  feeling  is  proven  by  his  violent  decla- 
mations against  the  Romans,  “quos  noSy  Langobardi  scilicet,  Sax- 
ones,  Franci,  Lotharingi,  Bagoarii,  Suevi,  Burgundiones,  tanto 
indignamur,  ut  inimicos  nostros  commoti  nil  aliud  contumeliarum, 
nisi : Romane  I dicamus.”  Ib.  c.  12. 


MEDIAEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  47 


their  appearance  was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  the  larger  part  of  this 
rabble,  in  honour  of  the  emperor,  had  marched  up  barefoot.  But  even 
among  the  grandees  of  his  court,  who  proceeded  with  him  through  the 
ranks  of  this  barefooted  populace,  there  was  hardly  any  one  who  wore 
a garment  which  his  grandfather  had  worn  new.  With  gold  or 
precious  stones  no  one  was  decorated,  except  Nicephorus,  who  in  his 
long  imperial  garment,  made  after  the  measure  of  his  predecessors, 
looked  all  the  more  abominable.  They  had  given  me  a place  on  a 
stand  next  to  the  imperial  choir  of  singers.  When  he  now  came  along 
like  a creeping  worm,  the  choir  struck  up  this  hymn:  * Lo  ! there 
comes  the  morning  star  ! Lucifer  is  rising ! his  glance  is  a reflection 
of  the  sunbeams  ! the  pale  death  of  the  Saracens  ! Nicephorus  the 
ruler  ’ ’ Much  more  fittingly  would  they  have  sung  something  like 
this:  ‘ You  burned-out  coal,  you  old  hussy,  you  ugly  ape,  you  goat- 
footed, horned  faun,  you  shaggy,  stubborup  boorish  barbarian.' 
Thus  then,  puffed  up  by  deceitful  eulogies,  the  emperor  enters  the 
church  of  the  Hagia  Sophia." 

If  a bishop  condescended  to  depict  events  of  contempo- 
rary history  in  a manner  which  comes  near  the  sensationalism 

of  modern  newspaper  style,  one  will  not  be  sur-  . 

V-  • Walthams. 

prised  to  find  that  the  fiction  of  the  time  also,  Eobasia  Oap- 

although  it  emanated  exclusively  from  the  cells 
of  the  monks  and  the  cloister  school-rooms,  was  at  bottom 
thoroughly  realistic  and  responded,  on  its  part,  to  the  popular 
demand  for  broad  facts  and  blunt  actuality.  In  the  pre- 
ceding chapter  the  fact  was  mentioned  that  about  the  year 
930  the  monk  Ekkehard  I.  of  St.  Gallon  treated  in  Latin  hex- 
ameter the  saga  of  Walthari,  the  hero  of  Aquitaine,  and  his 
fight  in  the  Vosges  mountains  with  King  Gunther  and  his 
vassals  ; and  it  will  be  remembered  how  faithfully  and  with 
what  apparent  delight  the  translator  reproduced  the  graphic 
bluntness  and  rugged  ferocity  of  the  old  Germanic  tale.*" 
About  the  same  time  another  monk,  whose  name  has  not 
been  preserved  to  us,  was  led  through  strange  personal 
experiences  to  produce  the  first  connected  animal  story  of 
German  literature,  the  Ecbasts  cuiusdam  captivi.  He  seems 


**  Supra  p.  22  f. 


48  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

to  have  been  an  exuberant,  unruly  fellow,  fond  of  roving 
and  outdoor  sports,  who  naturally  found  it  very  hard  to 
submit  to  the  strict,  monotonous  discipline  of  the  monastery. 
Several  times  he  escaped  from  it,  but  was  caught  and 
forced  back  to  the  life  so  distasteful  to  him.  At  last,  in  the 
desolation  of  his  heart,  he  took  refuge  in  poetry  and  repre- 
sented his  own  unlucky  escapades  under  the  disguise  of  the 
adventures  of  a calf,  which,  left  alone  in  the  barn,  while  all 
the  other  cattle  had  been  driven  to  pasture,  finally  broke 
loose  and  started  in  search  of  his  mother.  At  least  a few 
scenes  from  this  poem  may  be  selected,  showing  how  atten- 
tively this  monk  must  have  listened  to  the  sounds  of  nature, 
how  deeply  he  must  have  been  in  sympathy  with  the  life 
around  him  in  forest  and  field.  After  sporting  about  in  the 
meadows  to  his  heart’s  content,  the  calf  towards  evening 
seeks  the  shelter  of  the  woods.  There  he  is  met  by  the 
wolf,  the  forester,  and  at  once  taken  to  his  den,  situated 
under  bold  rocks,  near  a lustily  flowing  torrent.  As  it  is 
Lenten  time,  the  wolf  has  been  living  for  months  on  a very 
light  diet;  vegetables,  and  some  trout  and  salmon  furnished 
him  by  his  two  servants,  the  urchin  and  the  otter,  being  his 
daily  food.  No  wonder  that  he  welcomes  the  calf  most 
cordially.  He  invites  him  to  share  in  his  supper  and  offers 
him  a shelter  for  the  night,  but  announces  at  the  same  time 
that  he  is  to  be  eaten  up  for  dinner  to-morrow,  orders  being 
given  to  the  steward  to  put  him  on  the  table  raw,  with  a 
little  salt  and  spicy  dressing,  but  for  heaven’s  sake  with- 
out beans.’®  Things,  however,  turn  out  well  for  the  calf. 
In  the  morning  the  mournful  lowing  of  the  mother  cow 
calls  the  attention  of  the  shepherd  to  his  absence.  A dog, 
familiar  with  all  the  highways  and  byways  of  the  region, 
reports  that  last  night  he  heard  a great  deal  of  noise  in  a 
robber’s  den  up  in  the  mountains.  So  the  whole  herd,  the 
mighty  bull  at  their  head,  start  out  to  besiege  the  wolf’s 


Ecbasis  Captivi  ed.  E.  Voigt  v,  69  ff. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  49 


fastness,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  fox,  who  has  an  old 
grudge  against  him,^^  the  wolf  is  overcome,  and  the  calf 
trots  off  by  the  side  of  his  mother. 

It  has  often  been  pointed  out  what  a remarkably  active 
part  the  women  of  the  tenth  century  seem  to  have  played  in 
politics  and  literature.  Side  by  side  with  the  influence  of 
heroic  figures  of  Henry  I.  and  Otto  I.  stand  the  women  in  the 
venerable  forms  of  Mathilda  and  Editha,  their  of^^^ 

pious  wives,  and  the  reigns  of  Otto  II.  and  Otto  Gandersheim. 
III.  bear  most  decided  traces  of  the  influence  which  two 
royal  women,  Adelheid  and  Theophano,  exercised  upon  the 
political  and  intellectual  life  of  their  time.  Well  known 
is  Hadwig,  Duchess  of  Swabia,  a niece  of  Otto  the  Great, 
a strong-minded,  almost  manly  woman,  who  whiled  away 
the  loneliness  of  her  early  widowhood  in  the  study  of  Greek 
and  Latin  and  in  intercourse  with  learned  men,  such  as 
Ekkehard,  the  monk  of  St.  Gallon. Her  sister  Gerbirg 
was  abbess  of  the  monastery  of  Gandersheim  and  likewise 
famous  for  her  thorough  knowledge  of  the  ancient  authors. 
All  the  more  noteworthy  is  it,  therefore,  that  the  most  refined 
and  most  highly  cultured  of  all  these  women  of  the  tenth 
century,  Rosvitha  of  Gandersheim,  surrounded  as  she  was 
by  the  atmosphere  of  the  nunnery,  and  filled  as  she  was 


The  origin  of  the  hostility  between  fox  and  wolf  is  related  in  a 
long  digression,  v.  392-1097,  which  indeed  forms  the  larger  half  of  the 
poem.  The  first  comprehensive  animal-epic  is  the  Isengrimus  (c.  1 148). 

Ekkehard  II.,  tutor  of  the  emperor  Otto  II.,  not  the  author  of 
Waltharius. — Foremost  among  the  representatives  of  clerical  learning 
in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries  are  Ekkehard^s  cousin  Notker  III., 
surnamed  the  German  (d.  1022),  the  head  of  the  St.  Gallen  cloister- 
school,  the  translator  of  the  Psalms,  of  Boethius,  Aristotle,  and  Mar- 
cianus  Capella;  Williram  abbot  of  Ebersberg,  author  of  a paraphrase 
of  the  Song  of  Solomon  (c.  1065)  ; the  historians  Widukind  of  Corvey 
{Res  gestae  Saxonicae,  c.  967),  Thietmar  of  Merseburg  {Chronicon, 
1018),  Ekkehard  IV.  of  St.  Gallen  {Casus  S.  Galli,  c.  1035),  Hermann  of 
Reichenau  {Chronicon,  1054),  Adam  of  Bremen  {Gesta  pontificum 
Hammenburgensium,  c.  1072),  Lambert  of  Hersfeld  {Annates,  1077). 


so  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

with  a fiery  enthusiasm  for  Christian  holiness  and  purity^ 
was  carried  away  by  the  naturalistic  current  of  the  time^ 
like  the  rest  of  her  contemporaries.  The  one  theme  of  her 
plays — which,  by  the  way,  are  the  first  dramatic  attempts  in 
the  literatures  of  modern  Europe — is  the  battle  of  vice  and 
virtue,  the  triumph  of  Christian  martyrdom  over  the  tempta- 
tions and  sins  of  this  world.  But  the  world  is  not  a 
shadowy  abstraction  to  this  maiden  dramatist,  as  it  has  been 
and  is  to  so  many  didactic  and  homiletic  writers.  It  is  a 
living  being,  a monster  to  be  sure,  heinous  and  doomed,  but 
yet  alluring  and  strangely  human.  None  of  her  plays  passes 
beyond  the  range  of  a dramatic  sketch.  Most  of  them  con- 
sist only  of  a few  scenes.  There  is  hardly  any  attempt  at 
the  development  of  character.  But  it  is  astonishing  how 
well  Rosvitha  understands  with  a few  bold  touches,  with  a 
few  glaring  colours,  to  bring  before  us  an  image  of  life. 

Here  are  two  scenes  of  her  Dulcitius^  a play  which  very 
properly  has  been  called  a sacred  farce. Dulcitius,  a 
Roman  general,  has,  by  order  of  the  emperor 
Diocletian,  thrown  three  Christian  maidens 
into  prison.  Seized  with  wanton  desire,  he  goes  to  see 
them  at  night.  On  approaching  the  prison  he  asks  the 
guard : How  do  the  prisoners  behave  themselves  to- 
night ? ” Guard  : They  are  singing  hymns.  *’  Dulc.:  Let 

us  go  nearer.”  Guard:  ‘‘You  can  hear  the  silvery  sound 
of  their  voices  from  afar.”  Dulc,:  “You  stand  here  and 
keep  watch  with  the  lanterns  ; I’ll  go  and  see  them  my- 
self.” The  next  scene  shows  the  interior  of  the  prison 
with  the  three  maidens.  Agape,  Irene,  Chionia.  Agape  : 
“ What  a noise  there  is  in  front  of  the  door  ! ” Irene  : 
“ The  wretched  Dulcitius  enters.”  Chiona:  “ God  be  with 
us  ! ” Agape  : “Amen.”  Chiona  : “ What  can  that  clatter 
mean  among  the  pots  and  kettles  and  pans  in  the  kitchen  ? ” 
Irene  : “ Let  us  see  what  it  is.  Come  let  us  look  through 


Cf.  Die  Werke  der  Hrotsvitha  ed.  K.  A.  Barack  p,  i8o  £f. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  5 1 

the  chinks  of  the  wall/’  Agape  : What  do  you  see  ? ” 

Irene:  The  fool,  he  is  out  of  his  mind;  he  fancies  he 

is  embracing  us.”  Agape:  “Why,  what  does  he  do?” 
Irene  : “ He  is  holding  the  pots  caressingly  on  his  lap. 
Now  he  goes  for  the  pans  and  kettles  and  kisses  them  ten- 
derly.” Chiona  : “ How  funny  ! ” Irene  : “ And  his  face 
and  his  hands  and  his  clothes  are  soiled  and  blackened  all 
over  by  his  imaginary  sweethearts.”  Chiona  : “ That  is 
right : it  is  the  colovir  of  Satan,  who  possesses  him.” 

In  another  play,  entitled  Abraham^  an  old  hermit  of  that 
name  hears  that  his  stepdaughter,  after  having  eloped  with 
an  adventurer,  is  now  living  in  abject  misery. 

He  at  once  sets  out  to  rescue  her,  and  finds 
her  in  a house  of  ill-repute.  Having  introduced  himself 
under  a false  name,  he  comes  to  see  the  full  depth  of  moral 
wretchedness  into  which  the  poor  woman  has  fallen.  Then 
throwing  off  his  mask,  he  exclaims  “O  my  daughter, 
part  of  my  soul,  Maria,  do  you  recognise  the  old  man  who 
with  fatherly  love  brought  you  up  and  betrothed  you  to 
the  Son  of  the  Heavenly  Ruler?”  Now  there  ensues  the 
following  dialogue,  which  one  would  not  be  surprised  to 
find  in  a drama  of  Sardou.  Maria  : “ Woe  is  me  ! My 
father  and  teacher  Abraham  it  is  whom  I hear.”  Abra- 
ham : “ What  is  it,  child  ? ” M.  : “ Oh,  misery  ! ” A.  : 
“ Whither  has  iiown  that  sweet  angelic  voice  which  formerly 
was  yours  ?”  M.  : “ Gone,  forever  gone  ! ” A.  : “Your 
maiden  purity,  y^ur  virgin  modesty,  where  are  they  ? ” M.: 

“ Lost,  irretrievably  lost.”  A.:  “ What  reward,  unless  you 
repent,  is  before  you  ? You  that  plunged  wilfully  from 
heavenly  heights  into  the  depths  of  hell  !”  M.:  “Oh!” 

A.:  “Why  did  you  flee  from  me?  Why  did  you  conceal 
your  misery  from  me— from  me  who  would  have  prayed 
and  done  penance  for  you?”  M.:  “After  I had  fallen  a 
victim  to  sin  I did  not  dare  approach  you.”  A.:  “ To  sin 


Hrotsvitha  22q  ff.  For  the  CaHimachus  cf.  Scherer  l.c,  58. 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 


52  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


is  human,  to  persist  in  sin  is  devilish.  He  who  stumbles 
is  not  to  be  blamed,  only  he  who  neglects  to  rise  as  quickly 
as  possible/*  M.  (throwing  herself  down):  ‘‘Woe  is  me, 
miserable  one  ! *'  A.:  “What  do  you  throw  yourself  down  ? 
Why  do  you  lie  on  the  ground  motionless  ? Arise  ! Listen 
to  my  words/* 

As  the  last  example  of  the  predominance  of  the  realistic 
taste  in  the  clerical  literature  of  the  tenth  and  eleventh 
centuries  a work  may  briefly  be  mentioned 
which  has  been  called  the  first  novel  of  modern 
European  literature,  the  Ruodlieb^  written  by  an  unknown 
monk  of  the  Bavarian  monastery  Tegernsee  about  1030. 
Under  the  form  of  a story  of  love  and  adventure,  into 
which  we  cannot  here  enter,  this  work  gives  us  a vivid 
and  complete  picture  of  German  life  in  the  first  half  of 
the  eleventh  century/^  We  see  the  king,  surrounded  by 
his  vassals  in  ceremonious  splendour;  we  see  a most  elabo- 
rate, somewhat  heavy  etiquette  of  courtly  manners  ; we  see 
a rural  population,  rough  and  uncultivated,  but  full  of  sturdy 
thriftiness.  We  have  hunting  and  fishing  scenes,  battles 
and  diplomatic  negotiations,^®  country  fairs,  murders,  mobs, 
criminal  proceedings,  flirtations,  weddings,  scenes  of  domes- 
tic happiness  and  misfortune, — hardly  any  feature  of  life 
remains  untouched.  And  here  again,  as  in  the  works  men- 
tioned before,  we  find  a carefulness  of  delineation,  an  exact- 
ness in  reproducing  outward  happenings,  and  a realistic  love 
of  detail  which  is  truly  astonishing,  and  which  we  should 
hardly  expect  in  men  drawn  by  their  calling  towards  the 
spiritual,  if  we  did  not  know  that  by  the  same  class  of  men 
were  done  those  wonderfully  minute  and  careful  illumina- 


Cf.  Ruodlieb  ed.  F.  Seiler,  introd.  p,  81. 

One  of  these  negotiations,  /.  c.p.  226  ff.,  is  depicted  so  much  in 
accordance  with  historical  reports  about  a meeting  between  emperor 
Henry  II.  and  king  Robert  of  France,  which  took  place  in  1023,  that 
W.  V.  Giesebrecht,  Kaiserzeit"^  II,  602,  has  felt  justified  to  use  this 
chapter  of  the  Ruodlieb  as  a historical  document. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  53 

tions  and  miniatures  of  mediaeval  manuscripts,  which  bring 
the  life  of  the  Middle  Ages  perhaps  more  vividly  before  our 
eyes  than  anything  else  can  do. 

From  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  to  the  last  decades  of 
the  twelfth  century  there  follows  a transition-period.  Two 
events  of  far-reaching  import  stand  in  the  fore-  New  impulse 
ground  of  the  political  interest  of  this  epoch: 
the  struggle  between  church  and  state,  and  the  througli  the 
beginning  of  the  crusades.  Both  events,  while  iii^estiture 

. . r 1 1 1 • 1 • 1 ' conflicts  and 

raising  the  supremacy  of  the  church  to  its  highest  the  crusades. 

pitch,  at  the  same  time  set  free  popular  forces  hitherto 
bound.  To  be  sure,  both  the  crusades  and  the  wars  of 
investiture  had  their  evil  consequences,  the  former  by  fos- 
tering that  spirit  of  aimless  adventure  and  waste  of  energy 
which  found  its  most  characteristic  type  in  the  figure  of  the 
knight-errant,  the  latter  by  giving  rise  to  a violent  party 
hatred  which  prevented  the  formation  of  a strong  national 
executive.  But  what  do  these  evils  count  compared  with 
the  elevation  of  the  whole  national  life,  the  quickening  of 
religious  feeling,  the  widening  of  the  intellectual  horizon, 
brought  about  by  these  great  movements  ? 

Whether  priests  should  be  allowed  to  marry;  whether  the 
king  or  the  pope  was  to  appoint  bishops;  whether  the  pope 
had  the  right  to  absolve  subjects  from  their  oath  of 
allegiance  to  the  king, — these  were  questions,  not  of  theo- 
logical interest,  but  of  the  most  direct  bearing  on  the  every- 
day life  of  the  people.  And  the  mere  putting  of  these 
questions  could  not  fail  to  bring  both  clergy  and  laity  into 
closer  contact  with  the  great  problems  of  the  day;  so  that 
it  is  perhaps  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  struggle  between 
church  and  state  at  the  time  of  Gregory  VII.  created  public 
opinion  in  Germany,  and  not  only  in  Germany  but  in 
Europe.  On  the  other  hand,  however  large  an  admixture 
of  worldly  motives  there  may  have  been  in  the  crusade 
enthusiasm,  it  certainly  cannot  be  denied  that  here,  for  the 
first  time  in  history,  we  find  the  leading  classes  of  Europe;^ 


54  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  clergy  and  the  nobility,  united  in  one  great  ideal  under- 
taking, an  undertaking  which  lifts  even  the  average  man 
into  a higher  sphere  and  kindles  a flame  of  human  brother- 
hood even  in  enemies. 

In  short,  the  time  of  fulfilment  is  ripening,  a time  is 
approaching  which  will  make  the  spiritual  worldly  and  the 
worldly  spiritual,  and  bring  forth  a literature  more  real  than 
the  speculative  flight  of  Otfrid’s  asceticism  and  more  ideal 
than  the  narrow  sensualism  of  the  Ruodlieb.  Let  us  take  a 
brief  glance  at  the  literary  symptoms  of  this  approaching 
reconciliation. 

A fact  not  without  importance,  which,  however,  can  here 
be  only  hinted  at,  is  the  stepping  into  prominence,  at  the 
The  Spiel-  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  of  the  minstrel 
mannsdich-  poetry.  When,  after  the  period  of  the  Migra- 
Sher.^HOT?  the  old  heroic  poetry  was  banished  from 

zog  Ernst.  the  banquet-halls  of  kings,  it  took  refuge  with 
the  lower  people,  and  became  the  property  of  wandering 
gleemen.  During  the  centuries  of  prevailing  clerical  litera- 
ture these  popular  singers  seem  to  have  led  a very  humble 
and,  as  a rule,  a rather  doubtful  existence,  ranking  in 
the  same  class  with  jugglers  and  tricksters,  and  appealing 
in  the  main  to  a vulgar  taste.*’^  Now  the  social  position  of 
these  minstrels  begins  to  be  raised,  they  begin  to  regain 
the  favour  of  the  nobility,  they  begin  to  assume  a more  dig- 

Still  cruder  are  such  poems  as  St.  Oswald  (cf.  Die  Spielmanns- 
dichtungy  DNL.  II,  i, /.  146  ff.),  Orendel  (tb.  170  ff.),  Salman  und 
Morolf  (ib.  196  ff.),  clumsy  conglomerations  of  fantastic  adventure, 
farcical  satire,  and  commonplace  morality.  They  are,  however,  note- 
worthy as  testifying  to  the  social  aspirations  of  the  gleemen  of  the 
twelfth  century.  In  every  one  of  these  poems  the  gleeman  (for  in  St. 
Oswald  the  raven  takes  the  gleeman 's  role)  performs  an  important 
part,  as  merrymaker,  as  messenger,  as  trusty  and  shrewd  counsellor, 
as  indefatigable  helper  in  need.  In  Salman  und  Morolf y king  Solo- 
mon himself  is  entirely  overshadowed  by  his  versatile  brother,  who 
very  fittingly  has  been  called  the  ideal  gleeman.  Cf.  W.  Golther, 
Cesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  bis  z.  Ausg.  d.  MA.p.  no. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  55 

nified  tone.  And  what  is  most  significant,  they  treat  by 
preference  subjects  which  show  the  influence  of  the  cru- 
sades. No  doubt  the  sensational  still  prevails  in  these 
poems.  Even  in  the  best  of  them,  such  as  Konig  Roiher 
(c.  1150)  and  Herzog  Ernst  (c.  1175),  the  imagination  is 
crowded  with  stupendous  monstrosities.  King  Rother  on  his 
voyage  to  Constantinople  is  accompanied  by  giants,  one  of 
whom  is  so  ferocious  that  he  must  be  led  by  a chain,  while 
another  is  so  abnormally  strong  that  when  he  stamps  his 
foot  it  goes  into  the  ground  up  to  his  knee.*®  Duke  Ernst, 
during  his  adventurous  expeditions  in  the  Orient,  fights 
against  cranes  and  griffins,  pygmies  and  giants,  against  men 
so  flat-footed  that  they  use  their  feet  as  umbrellas,  against 
others  with  ears  so  long  that  they  cover  their  nakedness 
with  them.*®  However  absurd  such  exaggerations  appear  to 
us,  even  these  exotic  extravagances  throw  light  on  the  influx 
of  new  ideas  brought  about  through  the  crusades.  And 
in  this  lies  the  chief  importance  of  the  minstrel  song  as  a 
whole.  It  shows  that  the  representation  of  that  which  is 
near  at  hand  and  familiar  does  not  any  longer  satisfy  the 
popular  taste;  that  men  are  attempting  to  assimilate  foreign 
ideas;  that  the  distant  begins  to  exert  its  fantastic  charm; 
that  German  literature  is  beginning  to  take  flights  into 
regions  heretofore  unexplored. 

Of  still  greater  significance  than  this  development  of  the 
minstrel  song  is  a revolution  which  simultaneously  takes 

place  in  the  form  and  spirit  of  the  clerical  litera-  ,, 

^ ^ , New  idealism 

ture.  It  has  been  made  sufficiently  clear,  it  seems,  in  clerical 

that  this  literature — although  confined  to  Latin,  Heratnre. 
the  language  of  books  and  of  the  past,  as  its  vehicle  of 
expression — was  up  to  this  time  mainly  given  over  to  a 
portrayal  of  things  present  and  visible.  Now  we  observe  a 
change  in  both  respects.  The  clerical  writers  begin  to 


Konig  Rother  ed.  H.  Riickert  v.  758  ff.  942  f. 

Herzog  Ernst  cd.  K.  Bartsch  v,  2845  ff,  4114  ff.  4669  ff.  4813  ff. 


56  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

adopt  the  German  language,  and  at  the  same  time  they 
begin  to  imbue  their  writings  with  a larger  sentiment,  to 
evince  a higher  view  of  human  life,  to  draw  characters  of 
a deeper  meaning,  to  bestow  less  attention  upon  accurate 
description  of  details,  and  to  bring  out  more  fully  the  out- 
lines and  proportions  of  the  whole.  Let  us  observe  the 
manifestations  of  this  new  spirit  in  two  poems,^®  which 
belong  to  the  best  productions  of  clerical  literature  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  which  stand  fittingly  at  the  close  of 
this  review  of  the  preclassic  period  in  the  mediaeval  litera- 
ture of  Germany:  the  Rolandslied  of  the  pfaffe  Konrad 
(c.  1132)  and  xhQ  Alexanderlied  of  the  pfaffe  Lamprecht 
(c.  1138). 

A comparison  of  the  German  Rolandslied  with  its  French 
model  cannot  but  be  unfavourable  to  the  former.  It  alto- 
gether lacks  that  patriotic  joyousness,  that  fiery 
Eolandslied.  enthusiasm  for  “ sweet  France  ” and  her  glorious 
heroes,  which  make  the  Chanson  de  Roland  such  an  impor- 
tant testimony  to  the  growth  of  French  national  feeling. 

These  two  poems,  however,  do  not  stand  alone.  The  same  com- 
bination of  the  •worldly  and  the  spiritual  which  we  observe  in  the 
Rolandslied  and  Alexanderlied  is  manifested  in  not  a small  number  of 
clerical  poems  of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries,  of  which  it  may 
suffice  here  to  mention  Ezzo’s  Song  of  Redemption  (c.  1060),  the  Wiener 
Genesis  (c.  1070),  the  Annolied  (before  1100),  the  so-called  elder 
Judith  (c.  mo),  the  Life  of  Jesus  formerly  ascribed  to  the  nun  Ava 
(c.  1120),  the  Kaiserchronikip.  1150,  written  probably  by  Konrad,  the 
author  of  the  Rolandslied),  the  Arnsteiner  Marienleich  (c.  1150),  the 
Life  of  Mary  by  the  priest  Wernher  (c.  1172),  the  legend  of  Pilatus 
(c.  1180).  Cf.  MSD.\  Piper,  Z>.  geistL  Dichtung  d.  MA,,  DNL.  Ill  ; 
and  Spielmannsdichtung  /.  c,  II,  2.  All  these  poems  are  marked  by 
childlike  purity  of  feeling  and  simple  delight  in  the  passing  show  of 
existence,  and  at  the  same  time  betray  a deep  sense  of  the  eternal 
mystery  of  things.  On  the  other  hand,  even  in  the  violent  declama- 
tions of  Heinrich  of  Melk  (c.  1160,  cf.  H.  Hildebrand,  Didaktik  aus 
d.  Zt.  d.  Kreuzzuge,  DNL.  IX,  69  if.)  against  the  world  and  its 
treacherous  splendour  there  is  a power  of  human  passion  which  shows 
that  he,  too,  felt  himself  under  the  spell  of  the  world’s  realities. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  57 

But  this  lack  of  a strong  national  consciousness  in  the 
German  poem  we  are  made  to  forget  by  a religious  fervour 
which  is  not  of  the  monkish,  world-abjuring  type,  but 
heroic,  masculine,  world-conquering.  Not  until  our  own 
century,  when  Uhland’s  ballads  infused  a new  life  into 
the  old  legend,  has  the  tale  of  Kaiser  Karl  and  his  pala- 
dins received  a more  worthy  interpretation  in  German 
literature  than  in  the  Rolandslied.  As  Karl  Bartsch  has 
said,^^  the  spirit  of  the  Old  Testament  breathes  in  this 
poem.’* 

What  a wonderful  majesty  is  poured  out  over  the  figure  of 
emperor  Karl!  When  he  hears  of  the  heathenish  horrors  in 
Spain,  that  the  Saracens  venerate  idols  and  have  no  fear  of 
God,  he  grows  very  sad  and  beseeches  the  Creator  of  man- 
kind to  rescue  his  people  and  to  deliver  heathendom  from 
the  dark  night  of  hell.  An  angel  appears  calling  upon  him 
to  go  forth  and  fight  against  the  reprobate.  All  night  the 
emperor  lies  in  fervent  prayer;  in  the  morning  he  summons 
his  twelve  paladins  and  tells  them  that  they  are  chosen  to 
win  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  which  shines  as  brightly  as 
the  morning  star.^^  When  the  messengers  of  the  Saracens, 
bearing  a deceitful  offer  of  submission,  appear  before  him, 
they  find  him  playing  at  chess.  Without  asking,  they  recog- 
nise him  by  the  fiery  glance  of  his  eyes,  which  they  can  bear 
as  little  as  the  rays  of  the  midday  sun.  Three  times  the 
chief  of  the  ambassadors  addresses  him,  declaring  the  will- 
ingness of  his  master  to  accept  Christianity.  The  emperor, 
his  head  bowed  down,  listens  silently;  at  last  he  raises  his 
face  and,  as  if  moved  by  divine  inspiration,  breaks  out  in 
praise  of  the  Almighty.^^ 

What  a truly  great  picture  of  Christian  heroism  is  the 
scene  of  Roland’s  death  on  the  battle-field  of  Roncesval  ! 
After  accomplishing  most  wonderful  deeds  of  prowess. 


Das  Rolandslied  ed.  Bartsch,  introd.  p.  14, 
Ib.  31  ff.  33  jfj 


58  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

mortally  wounded,  he  sits  down  on  the  stump  of  a tree.  A 
Saracen,  believing  him  dead,  steals  up  to  him  to  rob  him 
of  his  sword  and  horn.  But  Roland,  lifting  his  horn,  breaks 
it  upon  the  helmet  of  the  coward  so  that  the  blood  leaps 
forth  from  his  eyes.  Then,  feeling  that  his  hour  has  come, 
he  tries  to  destroy  his  dear  sword  Durendarte.  He  grasps 
it  with  both  hands;  ten  times  he  dashes  it  against  the  rock, 
but  in  vain:  the  sword  remains  without  notch  or  blemish. 
Now  he  addresses  it,  calls  up  the  memory  of  all  the  deeds 
which  it  has  done,  of  all  the  enemies  which  it  has  con- 
quered, and  then  bids  it  farewell.  He  takes  off  his  gauntlet 
and  holds  it  up  to  heaven;  an  angel  appears  and  receives 
it.  Roland  commends  his  soul  to  the  heavenly  Father; 
and  as  he  dies,  the  earth  quivers,  the  thunder  rolls,  the  sun 
is  darkened,  and  the  sea  is  swept  by  mighty  whirlwinds.^* 

If  in  the  Rolandslied  the  ideal  religious  hero  of  the  time 
of  the  crusades  is  exhibited,  the  author  of  the  Alexanderlied 
makes  at  least  an  attempt  at  representing  the 
Alexanderlied.  worldly  hero.  What  strange  transforma- 

tions the  great  Alexander  has  undergone  from  the  time  of 
his  death  to  the  twelfth  century!  Almost  all  the  nations  of 
southern  Europe  and  the  Orient  have  contributed  in  chang- 
ing him  from  an  historical  figure  into  a hero  of  legend. 
The  Greeks  saw  in  him  a new  Dionysos.  The  Egyptians 
made  him  the  son  of  a fabulous  magician.  The  Jews  re- 
garded him  as  the  representative  of  human  presumptuous- 
ness, and  told  of  his  attempted  conquest  of  paradise.  The 
Byzantines  made  him  a predecessor  of  their  emperors,  and 
tried  to  back  up  their  claims  on  Italy  with  a fictitious  Italian 
expedition  of  his.  The  Persians  changed  him  into  the  hero 
of  a fairy  tale,  who  knows  the  hidden  powers  of  nature  and 
who  lives  entirely  in  a world  of  the  incredible.  All  these 
traits  we  see  combined  in  the  German  Alexanderlied  j and 
if  the  combination  is  neither  very  original — for  its  author, 


Rolandslied  v.  6771  if. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM,  $9 


like  the  poet  of  the  Rolandslied,,  worked  after  a French 
modeF^ — nor  artistically  altogether  satisfactory,  it  shows 
at  least  an  honest  attempt  to  focus  the  manifold  and  di- 
verging rays  of  character,  to  penetrate  into  the  mystery  of 
genius,  to  look  at  human  life  from  a free  and  elevated 
standpoint. 

We  may  smile  at  the  naive  way  in  which  the  poet,  in 
order  to  suggest  the  supernatural  greatness  and  fertility  of 
his  hero's  mind,  lends  to  his  body  a most  fanciful  mixture 
of  animal  characteristics,  making  him  look  like  a wolf 
standing  over  his  prey;  with  hair,  red  and  shaggy,  like  the 
fins  of  a sea-monster  or  the  mane  of  a lion;  his  one  eye 
blue,  like  that  of  a dragon,  the  other  black,  like  that  of  a 
griffin.^®  But  we  can  have  nothing  but  admiration  for  the 
truly  human  large-mindedness  with  which  the  same  poet 
knows  how  to  treat  the  heroic  as  well  as  the  humble,  the 
passionate  as  well  as  the  gentle,  the  active  and  the  con- 
templative, the  sublime  and  the  graceful,  the  gigantic  and 
the  sentimental.  The  description  of  the  grief  of  the  Per- 
sians over  the  defeat  of  Darius^^  is  pathetic  in  the  extreme. 

“ When  the  message  came  into  Persia  that  the  king  had  been 
beaten,  grief  and  sorrow  were  great  overall  the  land.  There  was  many 
a one  that  bewailed  and  wept  over  the  loss  of  his  fellow;  the  father 
wept  over  his  child;  the  sister  over  her  brother;  the  mother  over  her 
son;  the  betrothed  over  her  lover.  The  boys  in  the  streets,  gathered 
for  play,  wept  for  their  lords  and  masters.  The  infants  lying  in  the 
cradle  wept  with  their  elders.  Moon  and  sun  were  darkened  and 
:.urned  away  from  the  terrible  slaughter.  Darius  himself  went  up  into 

Cf.  Lamprecht^ s Alexander  ed.  Kinzel  v.  13  : 

Alberich  von  Bisinzo 
der  brahte  uns  diz  lit  zfi. 
er  hetez  in  walhisken  getihtet. 

Since  only  a few  fragmentary  lines  of  this  poem  have  been  pre- 
served to  us,  it  is  impossible  to  decide  how  far  Lamprecht  is  indebted 
to  it.  So  much  is  clear,  that  he  did  not  follow  it  slavishly.  Cf. 
Kinzel’s  introd.  p.  29.  For  an  analysis  of  the  poem  cf.  Gervinus, 
Gesch.  d.  d.  Dichtg^  1,  334  ff. 

Ib,  z/.  115  ff.  Ib,  V.  3346  ff. 


6o  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


his  hall,  threw  himself  on  the  floor  and  longed  to  die.  He  cried  : 
‘What  does  it  now  avail  me  that  I ruled  over  many  lands,  conquered 
by  my  own  valour  ? At  my  service  there  was  many  a land  in  the  wide 
sea.  There  were  thousands  who  paid  me  tribute  and  never  saw  me 
all  their  lives.  If  they  only  heard  my  name  they  were  ready  to  serve 
me.  Now  I am  broken  and  helpless,  scarcely  have  I saved  my  own 
life.  That  is  the  way  of  Fortune  ; she  turns  her  wheel  swiftly,  and 
he  who  sits  securely  often  falls.'  ” 

What  a contrast  with  this  is  the  lovely  fairylike  story  of 
the  flower-maidens  whom  Alexander,  on  one  of  his  fabulous 
expeditions  after  the  conflict  with  Darius,  meets  in  a 
primeval  forest,  and  whom  he  himself  describes  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner  : 

“We  found  there,"  he  says,^®  “ many  beautiful  maidens  sporting 
on  the  green  lawn,  a hundred  thousand  and  more.  They  played  and 
danced  about,  and  oh  how  beautifully  they  sang!  The  sweet  sound 
made  me  and  all  my  heroes  forget  our  sorrows  and  troubles  and 
pains.  To  all  of  us  it  seemed  that  we  had  found  enough  of  joy  and 
riches  to  last  all  our  lives,  and  as  though  sickness  and  death  could 
touch  us  no  more.  What  these  maidens  were  and  how  they  lived,  I 
will  tell  you.  When  summer  came  and  beautiful  flowers  sprang  up 
in  the  green  fields,  they  were  a joy  to  look  at  in  the  splendour  of  their 
colours;  they  were  round  like  balls  and  firmly  closed  all  round.  They 
were  wonderfully  large,  and  when  they  unfolded  themselves,  lo!  there 
were  maidens  in  them,  beautiful  and  fair.  Women  so  perfect  in 
body  and  face,  in  arms  and  hands,  I never  saw.  They  were  graceful 
and  joyful,  and  laughed  and  sang.  But  only  in  the  shade  could  they 
live;  in  the  sun  they  wilted  away  at  once.  Early  and  late  the  forest 
resounded  with  the  sweet  voice  of  the  maidens;  what  could  be  more 
beautiful?  Their  garments  were  grown  to  their  bodies,  red  and  snow- 
white  like  the  flowers  was  their  colour.  When  we  saw  them  approach 
us,  all  our  hearts  rushed  to  meet  them.  We  pitched  our  tents  in  the 
forest;  joyfully  we  received  the  strange  brides;  we  had  more  delight 
than  ever  since  we  were  born.  But  oh  how  soon  we  lost  our  happi- 
ness ! Three  months  it  lasted  and  twelve  days,  that  I and  my  good 
warriors  lived  with  our  beautiful  brides  in  the  green  forest  near  the 
lovely  brook.  But  when  the  time  was  fulfilled,  our  joy  vanished 
away.  The  flowers  withered,  the  beautiful  women  died,  the  trees 


Lamprecht' s Alexander  v.  5210  ff. 


MEDIEVAL  HIERARCHY  AND  FEUDALISM.  6l 


shed  their  leaves,  the  brook  stopped  its  flowing,  the  birds  their  song; 
grief  and  sorrow  subdued  my  heart,  when  day  after  day  I saw  the 
women  and  the  flowers  pine  away.  And  we  left  the  forest  with  gloom 
and  sadness.’' 

Alexander's  own  character  shows  a truly  human  mixture 
of  fierce  heroism  and  gentle  magnanimity,  and  his  whole 
career  appears  to  the  poet  as  a symbol  of  human  great- 
ness and  human  littleness.  Hardly  any  battle-scene  of 
the  old  Germanic  epics  is  wilder  and  more  ferocious  than 
his  fight  with  King  Porus.^®  The  two  heroes  rushed  against 
each  other  like  wild  boars;  the  sound  of  their  strokes  was 
deafening,  fire  flashed  from  their  helmets,  and  the  green 
meadows  were  reddened  with  blood.  In  his  combat  with 
the  Duke  of  Arabia,^®  Alexander  for  three  days  waded  in 
blood  up  to  his  knees,  and  many  a one  was  drowned  in  the 
awful  torrent.  In  his  meeting  with  the  Scythian  barba- 
rians,*^ who  are  so  contented  with  their  simple  and  barren 
existence  that  they  beseech  Alexander  to  give  them  immor- 
tality, his  titanic  nature  flames  up  in  truly  awe-inspiring 
greatness.  He  declines  their  request  by  saying  that  this  is 
not  in  his  power.  But  when  they,  surprised  at  this,  ask 
him  why  then,  being  only  a mortal,  he  was  making  such  a 
stir  in  the  world,  he  answers:  ‘‘The  Supreme  Power  has 
ordained  us  to  carry  out  what  is  in  us.  The  sea  is  given 
over  to  the  whirlwind  to  plough  it  up.  As  long  as  life  lasts 
and  I am  master  of  my  senses,  I must  bring  forth  what  is  in 
me.  What  would  life  be  if  all  men  in  the  world  were  like 
you  ? ” 

But  this  same  man  is  as  tender-hearted  and  innocent  as  a 
child.  In  touching  words  he  laments  the  death  of  his 
enemy  Darius;  in  the  midst  of  his  victorious  march  through 
Asia,  he  stops  and  returns  home  because  he  hears  that  his 
mother  has  fallen  sick.  And  the  wife  of  Darius  he  treats 


Lamprechf  s Alexander  v.  4653  ff.  Ib.  v.  2144  ff. 

41  Ib,  V.  4844  ff. 


62  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

reverently  and  tenderly,  because  he  thinks  of  his  own 
mother.  When  he  reaches  the  end  of  the  world  he  is  seized 
with  melancholy  ; and,  repulsed  from  paradise,  he  gives  up 
his  warlike  career  and  closes  his  days  in  works  of  piety  and 
charity.  His  death  the  poet  mentions  with  the  words: 
‘‘There  he  was  forgiven.’'  Of  all  things  that  he  owned  in 
life,  only  seven  feet  in  the  ground  remained  his.'^* 

We  have  followed  the  course  of  German  literature  through 
three  important  stages  of  development.  We  have  seen,  at 
the  time  of  the  decaying  Carolingian  empire. 
Conclusion.  supplanting  of  old  Germanic  traditions  and 

conceptions  by  an  intense  ascetic  idealism.  We  have  seen 
how,  in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries,  together  with 
the  growth  of  a strong  national  state,  relying,  however,  on 
the  clergy  as  its  main  organ  of  administration,  there  de- 
velops a clerical  literature  of  a most  outspoken,  realistic 
character.  We  have  seen  how,  towards  the  end  of  the 
eleventh  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century, 
under  the  influence  of  internal  struggles  and  outward  con- 
quest, there  arises  a new  idealism,  more  human  and  more 
real  than  that  of  the  Carolingian  period.  We  shall  now  see 
how  in  the  next  period  the  knightly  order,  the  leading  class 
of  the  laity,  steps  into  the  place  of  the  clergy  as  the  main 
upholder  and  cultivator  of  literature,  and  how  this  class 
takes  up  the  new  idealistic  movement  begun  by  the  clergy, 
and  carries  it  to  its  highest  perfection. 


Lamprecht  Alexander  v.  7271  ff. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE. 

(From  the  Middle  of  the  Twelfth  to  the  Middle  of  the  Thirteenth 
Century.) 

Our  story  has  now  reached  about  the  year  1200.  What 
a change  in  the  political,  religious,  and  social  aspect  of 
Europe  has  been  brought  about  during  the  six 
hundred  years  leading  up  to  this  date  ! Instead 
of  the  surging  mass  of  Germanic  tribes  flooding 
the  face  of  Europe,  we  find  the  European  nations  firmly 
settled  within  almost  the  same  boundaries  which  they  oc- 
cupy to-day;  instead  of  the  violent  conflict  between  pagan- 
ism and  Christianity,  we  find  the  supremacy  of  the  Catholic 
church  universally  acknowledged;  instead  of  the  social 
chaos  brought  about  through  the  collision  of  the  Roman 
and  the  Germanic  world,  we  find  a society  organized  under 
the  complicated  system  of  feudalism. 

Two  features  of  this  system  appear  to  be  of  especial 
interest  for  us  of  the  present  day.  The  first  is  a remark- 
able absence  of  individual  liberty.  Only  as  a Absence  of  in- 
part  of  the  social  whole  has  the  individual  in  dividual  lib- 
mediaeval  society  any  right  of  existence.  Politi- 
cally  he  is  not  an  independent  citizen,  not  a representative 
of  popular  sovereignty,  but  only  a link  in  the  long  chain  of 
social  interdependence  that  stretches  from  the  emperor 
through  dukes,  counts,  lords,  proprietors,  to  the  serf.  As  a 
Christian  he  has  communion  with  God,  not  through  his  own 
individual  spirit,  but  through  the  interposition  of  priest, 
bishop,  archbishop,  pope;  not  he  himself,  but  the  church 

63 


64  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

for  him,  administers  the  offices  of  grace.  In  the  whole 
mediaeval  organism  man,  as  man,  does  not  exist. 

But  this  lack  of  individual  liberty  in  the  feudal  system  is 
offset  by  a remarkable  community  of  interest  and  purpose. 

It  would  be  preposterous  to  believe  that  those 
great  institutions  of  empire  and  papacy,  during 
the  time  of  their  highest  consummation,  were 
soulless  machines,  fettering  the  spirit  of  the  nations; 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  the  living  organs  through 
which  the  European  nations  at  that  time  voiced  their 
deepest  faith  and  their  finest  aspirations.  It  was  the 
masses  that  supported  the  papacy;  the  vicar  of  Christ  on 
earth  was  their  advocate;  in  him  they  saw  an  incarnate 
expression  of  what  the  many  were  striving  for  in  vain: 
sanctity  in  the  flesh,  spiritual  perfection,  an  anticipation  of 
heavenly  existence.  And  the  emperor,  far  from  being  an 
absolute  autocrat,  was  thought  of  as  the  visible  symbol 
of  justice  on  earth.  He  was  elected  by  the  best  and 
most  exalted  of  the  nation;  he  was  pledged  to  be  a pro- 
tector of  the  poor  and  weak,  a promoter  of  God’s  kingdom 
among  men.  And  the  union  of  these  two  powers,  of  pope 
and  emperor,  gave  assurance  of  the  union  of  all  Christen- 
dom in  the  struggle  against  the  powers  of  darkness.  Even 
Dante,  modern  man  that  he  was  in  many  respects,  could 
not  conceive  of  any  private  or  public  happiness  without  the 
unhampered  influence  of  these  two  supreme  powers  and 
their  well-balanced  relation  towards  each  other.^ 

It  cannot  be  said  that  either  papacy  or  empire,  m the 
period  which  we  have  now  reached — i.e.,  roughly  speaking. 
The  papacy  at  from  the  last  quarter  of  the  twelfth 

the  time  of  to  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  — en- 
Innocentlll.  upon  any  new  line  of  thought.  It  was 

in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries  that  they  created  and 


^ De  monarchia  ed.  Witte  III,  i6,  52  ff.  Cf.  F.  X.  Wegele,  DanU 
Alighieri s Leben  u.  Werke^ p.  336  ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  65 

slowly  developed  their  ideals.  Now,  however,  these  ideals 
ripen  into  the  fulness  of  visible  perfection;  now  they  find, 
if  not  their  greatest,  at  least  their  most  brilliant  representa- 
tives and  exponents.  No  pope  has  ever  been  in  a truer 
sense  the  arbiter  of  Europe  than  the  proud  Innocent  III. 
(1198-1216).  The  patriarch  of  Constantinople  acknowl- 
edged him  as  his  superior;  the  kings  of  Arragon,  Portugal, 
Hungary,  and  even  England  bowed  before  him  as  their 
liege  lord;  the  king  of  France  submitted  to  his  command  in 
a question  of  his  matrimonial  relations;  and  his  attitude 
toward  the  German  empire  Innocent  has  himself  defined  in 
ever-memorable  words:  ^^Even  as  God,”  he  says,^  ^‘the 
creator  of  the  universe,  has  placed  two  great  lights  in  the 
firmament  of  the  heavens,  a larger  one  to  rule  over  the  day, 
a smaller  one  to  rule  over  the  night,  in  like  manner  has  he 
placed  in  the  firmament  of  the  universal  church  two  great 
offices,  a larger  one  to  rule  over  the  souls,  a lesser  one  to 
rule  over  the  bodies:  the  papal  and  the  imperial  authority. 
And  even  as  the  moon  receives  its  light  from  the  sun,  so 
the  imperial  power  receives  the  splendour  of  its  office  from 
the  papal  dignity.” 

On  the  other  hand,  no  more  impressive  rulers  have  ever 
held  the  German  sceptre  than  the  princes  of  the  Hohen- 
staufen  dynasty.  One  may  regret  their  lack  of  TheHohen- 
the  highest  statesmanship,  their  futile  attempt  staufen 
at  re-establishing  the  absolutism  of  the  Roman 
Caesars,  their  failure  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  new 
life  developing  at  this  very  time  in  the  republican  com- 
munities of  northern  Italy.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  with  all  their  faults  they  did  much  to  strengthen  Ger- 
man national  feeling.  It  is  certainly  not  a mere  coincidence 
that  the  greatest  German  historian  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the 
bishop  Otto  of  Freising,  was  a biographer  of  Frederick 


* Innocentii  III  Regest.  I,  401  (Migne,  Patrol.  CCXIV,  377)  ; cf. 
Registr,  de  negot,  Rom,  imp.  32  . (/.  c.  CCXVI,  1035). 


66  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

Barbarossa  (1152-1190),  and  one  needs  only  to  read  his 
account  of  the  emperor’s  first  entrance  into  Rome  ^ in  order 
to  form  an  idea  of  the  intense  patriotic  sentiment  which 
must  have  been  aroused  by  Frederick’s  brilliant  imperial 
policy.  The  Roman  nobles  at  the  approach  of  the  German 
army  send  ambassadors  to  welcome  the  king,  at  the  same 
time,  however,  to  exact  from  him  a promise  to  leave  their 
privileges  undisturbed.  But  Frederick  answers  them  in 
the  haughtiest  and  most  contemptuous  manner.  You 
have  told  me,”  Otto  makes  him  say,  ‘‘a  great  deal  about 
the  nobility  and  greatness  of  your  commonwealth.  I 
know,  I know  it;  once  there  was  a great  and  noble  Rome; 
would  that  I could  say  there  is  one  now  ! But  if  you  wish 
to  find  Rome’s  ancient  glory,  the  dignity  of  her  senators, 
the  strength  and  valour  of  her  nobility,  look  at  us.  All 
those  things  are  with  us  now.  With  us  are  your  consuls, 
with  us  your  senate,  with  us  your  warriors.  It  is  the  Ger- 
man knights  who  keep  in  check  your  insolence.”  And 
whatever  one  may  think  of  the  fantastic,  un-German  foreign 
policy  of  the  erratic  Frederick  II.  (1215-1250),  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  his  passionate,  unrelenting,  life-long  struggle 
against  the  supremacy  of  the  Roman  church  has  in  it  some- 
thing truly  heroic.  He  was  the  first  great  freethinker  of 
modern  times.  Undaunted  by  the  papal  excommunica- 
tion, he  undertakes  his  expedition  to  the  Holy  Land,  and 
in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  he  himself  places  the 
crown  of  the  kingdom  of  Jerusalem  on  his  head.  Deposed 
by  the  Council  of  Lyons  from  his  imperial  dignity,  he  de- 
clares that,  having  thus  far  been  the  anvil,  he  now  means 
to  be  the  hammer  of  the  church;  and  even  when  his  depo- 
sition is  followed  by  the  election  of  a successor  to  the 
German  crown,  defeated  in  open  warfare,  deserted  and  be- 
trayed by  his  most  intimate  friends,  he  remains  unshaken 
and  defiant  to  the  very  last.  No  wonder  that  his  contem- 


^ Gista  Friderici  ed.  Waitz  II,  21. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  67 


poraries  attributed  supernatural  powers  to  him,  that  they 
refused  to  believe  in  his  death,  that  stories  won  the  popular 
ear  of  his  having  been  laid  to  sleep  in  a mountain  cavern, 
whence  he  would  come  forth  again  to  rally  his  people 
around  the  imperial  standard/ 

During  the  time  of  the  Migrations,  poetry,  though  the 
common  property  of  all  freemen,  was  cultivated  mainly  at 
the  courts  of  tribal  kings.  During  the  long  oMvalry 
period  of  gradual  consolidation  of  papacy  and 
empire,  it  passed  over  into  the  hands  of  the  clergy,  the 
chief  upholder  of  both.  Now,  at  the  very  height  of  papal 
and  imperial  supremacy,  it  shifted  into  a new  class,  which 
meanwhile  had  become  the  mainstay  of  temporal  and 
ecclesiastical  government,  the  feudal  lay  aristocracy. 

The  beginnings  of  feudalism,  as  we  have  seen  in  a pre- 
vious chapter,^  are  to  be  found  in  the  land  grants  to  crown 
officials,  both  lay  and  clerical,  of  the  Frankish  monarchy, 
inasmuch  as  they  created  a privileged  class  of  large  real- 
estate  owners,  who  soon  assumed  within  their  territories 
the  claims  and  titles  of  sovereign  lords.  Mainly  in  conse- 
quence of  the  incessant  wars  of  Charles  the  Great  and  his 
successors,  this  landed  nobility  more  and  more  developed 
into  the  ruling  class  of  the  empire.  Before  Charles’s  reign, 
and  even  during  his  time,  the  chief  burden  and  honour  of 
military  service  rested  on  the  large  body  of  small  free  land- 
holders, subject  only  to  the  king,  at  whose  bidding  they  had 
to  appear,  armed  and  equipped  at  their  own  expense.  After 
the  dismemberment  of  the  Carolingian  empire,  and  through- 
out the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries,  this  class  of  small 
free  warrior-peasants  was  on  a steady  decline.  Not  being 
able  to  bear  the  strain  of  protracted  military  exertion,  they 
sought  to  evade  it  by  becoming  bondmen  of  the  powerful 


^ Cf.  G.  Voigt,  Die  Kiffhdusersage  p,  5 ff. 
® Cf.  supra  p,  36. 


68  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


landed  nobility;  abandoning  their  right  of  arms,  devoting 
themselves  more  and  more  exclusively  to  the  cultivation  of 
the  soil,  they  sank  in  the  course  of  time  largely  into  a state 
of  ignominious  servitude.  In  their  place  the  bulk  of  the 
armies  in  the  twelfth  century  began  to  be  formed  by  men, 
the  so-called  ministeriales^  who  made  skill  in  arms  a profes- 
sion, and  who,  by  entering  into  a feudal  relation  with  the 
old  nobility  and  increasing  their  power  and  influence,  at 
the  same  time  raised  their  own  social  standing  to  a level 
with  that  of  their  masters. 

Here  then  we  have  the  social  foundations  of  the  order  of 
chivalry.  It  is  a class  based  on  privilege  and  exemption, 
living  on  the  toil  of  the  common  herd,  separated  from  the 
mass  of  the  people  by  a wide  gulf  of  prejudice,  essentially 
unproductive  from  an  economical  point  of  view.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  a class  most  pre-eminently  given  over  to 
public  affairs,  both  in  church  and  in  state.  It  was  the  knight- 
hood who  fought  the  battles  of  the  Hohenstaufen;  it  was 
they  who  won  back  Jerusalem;  it  was  they  who,  by  estab- 
lishing a universally  acknowledged  standard  of  polite  con- 
duct and  intercourse,  formed  a bond  of  union  between  the 
nations  of  western  Europe,  second  in  strength  and  firmness 
only  to  that  of  the  common  religion;  and  it  was  they  who 
brought  about  that  short  but  wonderfully  productive  epoch 
of  German  poetry  characterized  by  the  Minnesong,  the 
resuscitation  of  the  old  national  hero-saga,  and  the  intro- 
duction of  the  French  court  epics. 

It  is  impossible  here  to  give  any  idea  of  the  wealth  and 
beauty  of  chivalrous  poetry;  only  a short  con- 
sideration of  its  most  striking  features  and  the 
greatest  of  its  productions  can  be  attempted. 

There  are  proofs  that  even  during  the  period  of  prevail- 
ing clerical  literature,  from  the  ninth  to  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  there  existed  an  undercurrent 
Minnesong.  secular  lyric  poetry.  An  ordinance  of  Charles 

the  Great  of  the  year  789  forbids  nuns  to  copy  or  send 


OMvalrons 

poetry. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  69 


“ winileodos,”  i.  e.  songs  of  love.'  The  Latin  rhymes  of  the 
Goliards  ” or  vagrant  students  disclose  the  existence  even 
before  the  days  of  the  chivalrous  Minnesong  of  a large  class 
of  roving  singers,  given  over  to  wine,  women,  and  merri- 
ment/ In  a Latin  composition  of  the  year  1170,  by  a 
monk  of  the  monastery  of  Tegernsee,  has  been  preserved  to 
us  a short  German  love-song  of  truly  popular  simplicity 

Du  bist  min,  ih  bin  din, 

Des  soil  du  gewis  sin. 

Du  bist  beslozzen 
In  minem  herzen. 

Verlorn  ist  daz  sluzzelin, 

Du  muost  immer  dar  inne  sin. 

But  it  is  only  since  the  full  development  of  chivalrous 
culture,  and  under  the  indisputable  influence  of  Provencal 
troubadour  song,  that  love  becomes  the  crown  and  glory  of 
a rich  and  full-sounding  German  lyrical  verse. 

As  is  well  known,  chivalrous  love  is  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  love  is  to  the  modern  man.  It  is  not  the 
communing  of  kindred  souls,  not  the  union  of  ohivalrons 
men  and  women  striving  after  a common  ideal,  conception  of 
It  is  based  on  the  conception  of  a playful  ser-  in^he^Minne- 
vice,  in  which  the  lover  is  bound  to  his  chosen  song, 
mistress;  it  consists  in  a constant  wooing  and  a constant 
refusing;  it  is  a matter  of  the  senses,  of  the  imagination,  of 
pride  and  honour,’  much  more  than  of  the  heart.  The  one 
fact  that  in  most  cases  the  mistress  of  the  minnesinger  was 
the  wife  of  another  shows  the  unreality  of  this  whole  rela- 
tion. Hardly  ever  do  the  lovers  see  each  other  alone;  to 


® Capitularia  regum  Francorum  ed.  A.  Boretius  I,  63.  On  the  ques- 
tion of  the  first  appearance  of  love  lyrics  in  Germany  cf.  R.  KOgel, 
Geschichte  d.  deutschen  Litteratur  bis  z.  Ausg.  d.  MA.  I,  i,  59  ff. 

Specimens  of  “ Goliard  ” poetry,  with  full  bibliography  of  the  sub- 
ject, in  Piper,  Spielmannsdichtung,  DNL.  II,  2,/.  273  ff. 

® Cf.  M.  Haupt,  Des  Minnesangs  Fruhling"^  p.  223. 


70  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE 


messengers  they  have  to  entrust  their  most  precious  greet- 
ings; they  are  in  constant  dread  of  spies  and  eavesdrop- 
pers; and  if  indeed  they  succeed  in  coming  together  under 
cover  of  the  night,  they  are  separated  by  the  sound  of  the 
watchman’s  horn  at  early  dawn.®  Something  stealthy  and 
insincere  pervades  most  of  this  poetry.  Rarely  do  we  hear 
the  tone  of  true  human  feeling. 

And  yet,  if  once  we  enter  into  this  fanciful  realm,  forget- 
ting that  it  is  largely  a play  of  an  over-refined  and  over- 
wrought imagination,  we  find  it  hard  to  resist  its  peculiar 
charm  and  cannot  help  taking  a sympathetic  pleasure  in  its 
scenes  of  longing  and  courting  chivalry.  ^‘From  love,’' 
sings  Heinrich  von  Veldeke,^®  comes  all  good.  Love 
makes  a pure  mind;  how  could  I be  without  it?  I love 
beautiful  women  unwaveringly;  I know  it  well,  their  love  is 
fair.  If  my  love  is  tainted  with  falseness,  there  never  will 
be  true  love.  He  is  a fool  who  thinks  love  a burden.” 
Quite  differently  feels  his  contemporary  Friedrich  von 
Hausen  “What  can  it  be  that  the  world  calls  love  and 
that  gives  me  such  woe  at  all  hours  and  takes  away  my 
senses  ? Love,  if  I only  could  meet  thee  in  combat  and 
put  out  thine  eyes!  If  thou  wert  dead,  I should  think  myself 
happy.”  “ O my  lady,”  sings  Heinrich  von  Morungen,^* 
“ if  thou  wilt  heal  me,  grant  me  one  little  glance.  I cannot 
longer  endure  it;  my  body  is  sick,  my  heart  is  sore.  My 
lady,  that  harm  have  done  me  my  eyes  and  thy  red  lips!  ” 
“Alas,”  exclaims  Reinmar  von  Hagenau,  the  teacher  of 
Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,*^  “ alas  that  I forgot  to  speak 
when  she  sat  by  my  side!  That  grieves  me  to  this  very  day. 
Why  did  I not  speak  then!  So  overjoyed  was  I to  see  the 
lovely  one  that  love  made  me  dumb.  To  many  a one 

® Cf.  K.  Bartsch,  Die  romanischen  u.  deutschen  Tageliedery  in  Vor^ 
trdge  u.  Aufsdtze  p.  250  ff.,  and  W.  de  Gruyter,  Das  deuische  Tagelied. 

Cf.  K.  Bartsch,  Deutsche  Liederdichter  des  12.  bis  14.  Jahrhun- 
derts  VII,  105  ff. 

” Ib.  VIII,  35  ff.  *2  73^  XIV,  281  ff.  Ib.  XV,  181  ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  /I 


might  happen  the  same,  if  he  saw  her  as  I did.”  Sir 
Meadow,”  says  Christian  von  Hamle,*'^  what  a joy  you 
must  have  felt  when  my  lady  walked  over  you  and  stretched 
out  her  white  hands  after  your  flowers!  Allow  me,  Sir 
Meadow,  to  put  my  feet  where  my  lady  has  gone.  Like 
your  clover,  my  heart  will  blossom  if  she  grant  me  a kindly 
look.”  Tenderly,  and  almost  trembling,  Ulrich  von  Lich- 
tenstein speaks  of  his  love^®:  In  the  forest  little  birds  sing 

sweet  songs.  On  the  heath  flowers  fair  blossom  in  the 
light  of  May.  Even  so  my  joyful  heart  blossoms  toward 
her  who  has  enriched  my  soul  as  a dream  enriches  a poor 
man.  Oh  that  she,  the  sweet  and  unalloyed  one,  would 
leave  me  in  this  dream,  if  more  I cannot  have;  that  I may 
not  awake  and  weep!  ” Neidhart  von  Reuenthal,  by  prefer- 
ence depicting  the  boisterous  holiday  life  of  the  peasants, 
imparts  a touch  of  courtliness  even  to  village  life^®:  “In 
golden  verdure  stands  the  grove.  Good  tidings  I bring  the 
ladies.  The  heath  is  clad  in  a garment  of  roses.  Now 
then,  proud  maidens,  the  May  is  in  the  land.  Look  how 
trees  and  meadows  are  rejoicing.  Of  yellow  flowers  I 
gather  me  a wreath.  Oh  come,  sweet  love,  let  us  go  danc- 
ing.” And  even  through  the  wild  irony  of  the  Tannhauser 
there  sounds  something  like  chivalrous  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion^’: “ My  lady  whom  I served  so  long  will  reward  me. 


Bartsch  /.  <r.  XXXII,  41  If. 

Ib.  XXXIII,  I ff. — That  the  Frauendienst  of  Ulrich  von  Lichten- 
stein, finished  in  1255,  is  chiefly  valuable  as  showing  the  fantastic 
C'lnventions  of  chivalrous  love  in  all  their  unnaturalness  and  exag- 
geration is  well  known. 

Cf.  Die  Lieder  Neidharts  von  Reuenthal  ed  F.  Keinz  nr,  12.  On 
Neidhart’s  life  (from  c.  1180-1250)  and  the  character  of  his  poetry, 
which  in  some  respects  represents  a healthy  reaction  against  the  over- 
strained refinement  of  chivalrous  Minnesong  and  an  approach  toward 
the  realism  of  the  following  period,  cf.  A.  Bielschowsky,  Geschichte 
der  deutschen  Dorfpoesie  im  13.  Jahrhundert  p.  40  ff. 

Bartsch  /.  c,  XLVII,  13 1.  Tannhauser,  who  seems  to  have  led 


72  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


For  that  you  must  all  thank  her;  she  has  done  well  by  me. 
She  wants  me  to  turn  the  course  of  the  Rhine  so  that  hence- 
forth it  flow  not  past  Koblenz:  then  she  will  be  mine.  If 
I bring  her  some  sand  from  the  sea  where  the  sun  goes  to 
rest,  she  will  grant  my  prayer.  A star  stands  near  by  yon- 
der; that  she  must  also  have.  I am  ready  to  do  it.  What- 
ever she  demands  of  me,  it  will  all  seem  good  to  me.” 

All  the  gracefulness  and  art  of  the  Minnesong  is  concen- 
trated in  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide;  and  in  him  at  least 
Walthervon  more  than  gracefulness  and  art;  in  him 

der  Vogel-  we  find  a struggling,  striving  man.  Austria, 
weide.  probably  his  native  land,  and  certainly  the  land 

where  he  learned  “ singen  unde  sagen,”  had  longer  than  the 
rest  of  Germany  remained  free  from  the  influence  of  French 
refinement.  Here  popular  song  was  heard  in  all  its  artless 
simplicity;  here  Walther  imbibed  that  tone  of  sturdy  true- 
heartedness which  distinguishes  his  poetry  from  that  of  all 
other  Minnesingers.  Leading  the  life  of  a wandering  glee- 
man,  which  carried  him  from  the  Adriatic  to  the  Baltic, 
from  Styria  into  France,  and  which  brought  him  into  con- 
tact not  only  with  the  Austrian  dukes  of  the  Babenberg 
dynasty  and  with  the  gay  court  of  the  Landgrave  Hermann 
of  Thuringia,  but  also  with  the  emperors  Otto  IV.  and 
Frederick  II.,  he  acquired  that  wide  experience  of  the 
world  and  that  strong  sense  of  country  and  of  national 
affairs  which  have  made  him  the  first  whole-souled  patriot 
in  German  literary  history. 

Walther’s  conception  of  love  is  deeper  than  that  of  any 
other  Minnesinger.  “ What  is  Minne  ? ” he  asks,  and  he 
answers  himself**:  “The  bliss  of  two  hearts  is  Minne.  If 

a roving  and  erratic  life,  died  about  1270.  For  the  TannhSuser 
legend  cf.  Keller,  Fastnachts^piele  des  Jahrdis.  Nacklesgy  nr,  124  J 
Uhland,  Alte  hoch-  u,  niederd.  Volkslieder  II,  nr.  297  a.  b. 

^8  Cf.  Walther  von  d.  Vogelweide  ed.  W.  Wilmanns*32,  14.  Wal- 
ther’s literary  career  can  be  traced  from  about  1190  to  about  1228. 

Ib,  69,  I ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  73 


both  share  equally,  then  Minne  is  there.  One  heart  alone 
cannot  hold  her.'’  Woman  (Weib)  seems 
to  him  a finer  word  than  Lady  (Frau)^®: 

‘‘Woman  is  women’s  fairest  name,  and  honours 
them  more  than  Lady.  Many  a lady  is  far  from  being  a 
woman,  but  a woman  is  always  womanly.”  He  despises 
inane  conventionalities.  Grace  appeals  to  him  more 
than  beauty,  and  the  glass  finger-ring  of  the  poor  girl 
whom  he  loves  he  prizes  more  than  all  the  gold  of  a queen. 
“Oh  blessed  hour,”  he  exclaims,*^  “when  I found  her  who 
has  conquered  my  body  and  my  soul,  when  all  my  senses 
became  allied  with  her  whose  goodness  has  made  me  her 
own.  That  now  I never  can  leave  her,  her  beauty  and 
goodness  have  done,  and  her  red  lips  that  laugh  so  strangely 
fair.” 

But  even  when  he  sings  in  the  same  key  with  the  rest  of 
his  fellow  poets  Walther  surpasses  them  all  in  the  sweet- 
ness and  natural  purity  of  his  voice.  Perhaps  never  has 
there  been  given  a more  perfect  picture  both  of  girlish  bash- 
fulness and  the  daring  of  first  love  than  in  the  poem  where 
he  makes  a young  girl  recall  her  meeting  with  her  beloved 
under  the  linden  tree  : 


Under  der  linden 
an  der  heide, 

da  unser  zweier  bette  was, 
da  muget  ir  vinden 
schone  beide 

gebrochen  bluomen  unde  gras. 

vor  dem  walde  in  einem  tal, 
tandaradei ! 

schone  sane  diu  nahtegal. 

Ich  kam  gegangen 
zuo  der  ouwe: 


do  was  min  friedel  komen  6. 

da  wart  ich  enpfangen, 
here  frouwe! 

daz  ich  bin  sselic  iemer  me. 

kuste  er  mich  ? wol  tfisent- 
stunt : 
tandaradei! 

sehet,  wie  rot  mir  ist  der  munt. 

Do  h6t  er  gemachet 
also  riche 

von  bluomen  eine  bettestat. 
des  wirt  noch  gelachet 


Walther  von  d.  Vogelweide  ed.  W.  Wilmanns  48,  38  ff. 
Ib.  49,  25  fif,  *^2  J2  ff.  n 2b.  39,  ii  £f. 


74  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


innecliche, 

kumt  iemen  an  daz  selbe  pfat. 

bi  den  rosen  er  wol  mac, 
tandaradei! 

merken  wa  mir’z  houbet  lac. 

Daz  bi  mir  laege, 
wesse  ez  iemen 


(nu  enwelle  got!),  so  schamte  ich 
mich. 

wes  er  mit  mir  pflaege, 
niemer  niemen 
bevinde  daz  wan  er  und  ich 
unde  ein  kleinez  vogellin: 
tandaradei! 

daz  mac  wol  getriuwe  sin. 


And  perhaps  the  most  artistic  of  Walther's  poems  is  the 
one  introducing  his  dream  of  meeting  his  love  at  a dance.®^ 

‘ Take  this  wreath/  I said,  ‘ they  are  only  wild  flowers,  but  the  best 
I can  give  you;  and  I know  where  there  are  more  gay  flowers,  yonder 
upon  the  heath  they  grow,  where  the  little  birds  sing.  Come,  let  us 
break  the  flowers.’  She  took  what  I offered  her,  like  a bashful 
maiden  she  flushed,  her  cheeks  were  like  roses  blooming  amid  lilies, 
she  cast  down  her  lovely  eyes,  it  seemed  to  me  that  never  did  I have 
greater  joy.  The  air  was  heavy  with  blossoms  falling  from  the  trees, 
I was  woven  around  with  delight;  then  it  dawned  and  I awoke.” 


His  national 
feeling, 


And  since  that  time,  he  concludes,  he  must  go  in  search 
of  his  lovely  vision,  and  try  to  find  it  among  the  girls  danc- 
ing on  the  meadow. 

As  was  said  before,  Walther’s  poetry  was  not  confined  to 
love.  He  took  part  in  the  affairs  of  his  country.  With 
flaming  words  he  inveighs  against  the  sectional 
spite  and  jealousy  of  the  German  princes  which, 
after  the  death  of  Henry  VI.,  the  only  son  of 
Frederick  Barbarossa  (1197),  plunged  the  empire  into  civil 
strife  and  tumult.**®^  With  bitter  irony  he  describes  how 
the  pope.  Innocent  III.,  laughs  in  his  sleeve  over  the  discord 
among  the  Germans  and  takes  advantage  of  this  opportunity 
to  extort  money  from  them — “ The  German  coin  pours  into 
our  Roman  shrine;  well,  then,  brethren  in  Christ,  let  us  eat 
chicken  and  drink  wine,  and  let  the  stupid  German  layman 


Walther  von  d.  Vogelweide  ed.  W.  Willmanns  74,  20  ff. 
Ib.  8,  4 ff. ; the  famous  Ich  saz  uf  eime  steine.” 

26  Ib.  34,  4 ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  75 


fast/’  He  bursts  into  an  enthusiastic  crusade  song;  he 
pictures  the  scenes  of  the  Holy  Land  in  such  vivid  lan- 
guage that  one  cannot  help  thinking  that  he  himself  must 
have  taken  the  cross/^  He  sings  the  praise  and  glory  of 
his  dearly  beloved  Germany/®  Lands  I have  seen  many, 
the  best  ones  I saw  with  open  mind.  But  evil  come  upon 
me  if  ever  I persuade  my  heart  to  take  pleasure  in  foreign 
ways.  What  would  it  help  me  to  speak  falsehood  ? 
German  life  surpasses  all.  From  the  Elbe  to  the  Rhine, 
and  again  as  far  as  Hungary,  there  live  the  best  that  I have 
known  in  the  world.  If  I can  rightly  judge  good  manners 
and  beauty,  so  help  me  God,  I would  swear  that  here  women 
are  better  than  elsewhere  ladies  are.  German  men  are  well 
behaved;  just  like  angels  are  our  women.  He  who  blames 
them  has  been  led  astray;  otherwise  I could  not  explain  it. 
Virtue  and  true  love,  he  that  is  in  search  of  these,  let  him 
come  into  our  land.  We  have  delight  in  plenty.  Oh  that 
I could  live  long  here!  ” 

But  there  is  something  higher  than  even  country  and 
public  life  for  Walther.  In  a religious  hymn  of  wonder- 
ful elevation  of  thought  and  feeling  he  glorifies 
the  Holy  Virgin  as  the  heavenly  vessel  of  all  purity  religion, 

and  bliss.  He  feels  deeply  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  things; 
he  longs  for  spiritual  perfection.  Who  slays  the  lion  ? ” 
he  asks,^®  ‘‘who  slays  the  giant  ? That  does  he  who  tames 
himself.”  He  bewails  the  transitoriness  of  life.®^  Was 
it  a dream  or  reality  ? Has  he  slept  all  his  life  without 
knowing  it,  and  has  he  only  now  been  awakened  ? 
Everything  about  him  seems  strange.  His  playmates  have 
grown  old,  the  familiar  forest  has  been  cut  down,  and  if 
the  water  were  not  flowing  now  as  of  old,  he  should  not 


Walther  von  d.  Vogelweide  ed.  W.  Wilmanns  76,  22  ff.  14,  38  £f. 
28  Ib.  56,  14  ff.  29  3^  j . the  Leich. 

Ib.  81,  7 ff.  Cf.  his  manly  conception  of  honour  102,  29  ff. 

31  Ib.  124,  I ff. 


;6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

know  where  he  was.  In  a little  dramatic  poem  he  bids 
farewell  to  lady  World,  the  devil's  innkeeper.^’*  ‘‘  Lady 
World,"  he  says,  “ tell  your  host  that  I have  paid  him 
squarely.  Let  him  strike  my  name  from  the  book;  I have 
paid  off  my  debt.  He  who  owes  him  has  many  sorrows. 
Before  incurring  a debt  with  him,  I would  rather  borrow 
from  a Jew.  He  waits  until  the  fatal  day,  but  then  he 
takes  a pledge  from  him  that  cannot  pay."  Lady  World 
tries  to  keep  Walther;  she  reminds  him  of  the  joys  that  she 
has  given  him,  of  the  loneliness  that  will  befall  him  without 
her.  But  Walther  knows  her  only  too  well:  ‘‘Your  face  is 
beautiful  and  fair,  but  at  your  back  there  are  horrible  mon- 
sters; always  will  I hate  you.  God  give  you  a good  night, 
lady  World;  I must  go  to  my  own  resting-place." 

The  second  important  outgrowth  of  chivalrous  civiliza- 
tion consists  in  the  revival  which  the  ancient  Germanic 
The  Middle  hero-saga  received  at  the  hands  of  wandering 
High  Grennan  minstrels,  in  other  words,  in  the  Middle  High 
folk-epic.  German  folk-epics.  The  principal  subjects 
of  these  epics — the  Nibelungen  legend,  the  Gudrun  legend, 
the  legends  of  Dietrich  von  Bern,  of  Walthari,  of  Ortnit 
and  Wolfdietrich — we  have  considered  in  connection  with 
the  time  in  which  they  first  took  shape,  the  period  of  the 
Migrations.  What  interests  us  here  is  certain  features  of 
their  remodelled  form  which  reflect  the  age  of  knightly 
culture  and  refinement. 

That  from  an  artistic  point  of  view  the  change  from  the 
heroic  freedom  of  the  old  Germanic  epic  to  the  conven- 

^ tional  courtliness  and  the  equally  conventional 

of  tke  ancient  grotesqueness  of  minstrel  poetry  was  far  from 
hero-saga.  being  a gain  is  too  apparent  to  require  more  than 
passing  comment.  One  need  only  compare  the  endless 
descriptions  of  knightly  pomp  and  tournament,  of  gorgeous 
costumes  and  weapons,  of  decorous  speeches  and  blameless 


Walther  von  d.  Vogelweide  ed.  W.  Wilmanns  lOO,  24  ff* 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  77 


manners,  which  form  the  bulk  of  poems  like  Ortnit,  Wolf- 
dietrichy  Virginal,  Biterolf  und  Dietleib  (thirteenth  century), 
with  the  tragic  brevity  and  compactness  of  the  ancient  lay  of 
Hildebrand;  or  the  clownish  brutality  of  such  a character 
as  the  monk  Ilsan,  the  most  striking  figure  of  the  Rosengarten 
(also  thirteenth  century),  with  the  truly  humorous  grimness 
that  pervades  the  concluding  scenes  of  Ekkehard's  Waltha- 
rius^^  in  order  to  feel  the  world-wide  difference  betw^een 
genuine  and  borrowed  poetry.  And  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  even  the  foremost  among  the  poems  which  proceeded 
from  these  attempts  at  resuscitating  old  Germanic  hero-life, 
that  even  the  Nihelungenlied  and  Gudrun^^  are  far  removed 
from  that  organic  unity  which  is  the  truest  sign  of  a natural 
artistic  growth.  They  give  the  impression  of  ruins  modern- 
ized. The  gigantic  outlines  of  the  original  plan  are,  in  part 
at  least,  still  to  be  seen;  but  they  are  seen  side  by  side  with 
meaningless  patchwork,  and  the  sombre  grandeur  of  the 
whole  is  disturbed  through  the  not  infrequent  effort  at 
imparting  to  the  old  subject  a new,  aristocratic  lustre. 

At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  said  that  the  life  portrayed 
in  these  epics  shows  unmistakably  a moral  progress  over 
the  life  portrayed  in  the  ancient  Germanic  hero-saga.  It 
shows  a more  fully  developed  inner  consciousness,  a more 


Cf.  supra  p.  23.  Extracts  from  the  poems  mentioned,  with  biblio- 
graphy, in  E.  Henrici,  Das  deutsche  Heldenbuch,  DNLAJW.  Notable  for 
their  pathetic  beauty,  and  undoubtedly  remnants  of  the  older  heroic 
poetry,  are  such  scenes  as  the  combat  of  young  Alphart  with  Witege 
and  Heime  in  Alpharts  Tod  (Henrici  /.  c.  p.  259  ff.),  and  the  death  of 
Ezzel’s  two  sons  in  Die  Rabenschlacht  {ib.  272  ff.). 

Both  the  Nihelungenlied  and  Gudrun  are  the  productions  of  indi- 
vidual poets  who  attempted  to  weld  together  the  older  epic  material 
handed  down  to  them  in  a variety  of  shorter  lays.  The  name  of 
neither  of  these  poets  is  known  to  us  ; both,  however,  were  Austrians. 
The  Nihelungenlied  was  composed  between  1190  and  1200;  Gudrun 
between  1210  and  1215.  For  the  theories  of  Lachmann  and  Miillen- 
hoff,  and  a full  bibliography  of  both  poems,  cf.  the  introductions  to 
the  editions  in  vol.  VI,  i and  2 of  the  DNL, 


78  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


subtle  sense  of  duty,  a finer  imagination,  a clearer  apprecia- 
tion of  self-discipline,  a greater  susceptibility  to  ideal 
demands.  It  shows  the  civilizing  influence  both  of  the 
mediaeval  church  and  the  mediaeval  state;  it  shows  the  ten- 
dency of  chivalric  society  toward  a reconciliation  of  the 
worldly  and  the  spiritual. 

Striking  is  the  contrast  in  which  the  lays  which  are  welded 
together  in  th^Nibelungenlied  stand  to  the  old  sagas  of  Sigurd 
Nibelungen-  Brynhild.  To  be  sure,  these  lays,  as  well  as 

lied.  the  older  ones,  are  filled  with  crime  and  hatred 

and  wild  passion.  Like  their  ancient  prototypes,  they  extol 
the  manly  virtues  of  physical  prowess  and  reckless  bravery. 
But  far  more  forcibly  than  in  the  former  stands  out  in  them 
the  image  of  womanly  tenderness  and  sweetness  ; and 
through  the  din  of  strife  and  battle  there  rings  forth  a clear 
voice  of  humanity  and  faith.  Their  subject  is  not  so  much 
how  revenge  follows  crime,  as  how  joy  turns  to  sorrow; 
their  principal  characters  are  not  fierce  Sigurd  and  Bryn- 
hild, but  gallant  Siegfried  and  gentle  Kriemhild.  And  if  gen- 
tle Kriemhild  through  a succession  of  portentous  events  is 
changed  into  a raging  monster,  this  very  distortion  makes 
us  see  all  the  more  clearly  and  mourn  all  the  more  deeply 
her  lost  beauty  and  fairness. 

A picture  of  inimitable  grace  and  delicacy  is  Siegfried’s 
wooing  of  Kriemhild,  as  told  in  the  first  three  aventiures  of 
the  Nihelungenlied,  In  Worms  on  the  Rhine  there  reigned 
Gunther,  king  of  the  Burgundians.  His  sister  Kriemhild 
once  in  a dream  fancied  that  she  had  reared  a falcon,  and  that 
two  eagles  came  and  plucked  his  feathers.  Her  mother 
interpreted  the  falcon  as  Kriemhild’s  future  lover;  but  she, 
refusing  this  interpretation,  said:  “Never  shall  the  love  of 
a man  bring  me  grief  and  pain.”  Siegfried,  the  prince  of 


‘ als  ie  diu  liebe  leide  z'aller  jiingeste  git ' ; Nibel,  ed.  Bartsch 
str.  2378. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  79 

Netherland,  heard  of  Kriemhild’s  beauty,  and  came  to  woo 
her;  he  was  kindly  received  at  the  court,  and  feasts  and 
tournaments  succeeded  each  other  to  honour  the  guest 
and  to  give  him  opportunity  for  proving  his  skill  and 
strength.  While  the  knights  were  sporting  in  the  fields, 
Kriemhild  would  stand  at  her  window  enjoying  the  sight 
and  longing  for  him  who  from  the  very  first  had  won  her 
heart.  But  he  was  not  allowed  to  see  her,  and  when  he  had 
stayed  in  Worms  for  a whole  year  they  had  not  yet  spoken 
a word  to  each  other.  Then  it  happened  that  the  Danes 
and  Saxons  declared  war  against  Gunther.  Siegfried,  de- 
lighted at  this  chance  to  give  vent  to  his  passion  for  fight,  at 
once  started  out  against  them.  When,  after,  a victorious 
battle,  his  messenger  arrived  in  Worms,  Kriemhild  secretly 
summoned  him  to  her  chamber  and  inquired  about  Sieg- 
fried ; and  when  she  heard  that  he  had  surpassed  all  others  in 
deeds  of  bravery,  she  could  not  conceal  her  emotion,  and 
her  bright  colour  bloomed  like  a rose.''  And  now  he  him- 
self returned.  The  whole  court  proceeded  to  receive  him, 
and  Kriemhild  was  selected  to  bid  him  welcome.  As  the 
morning  red  comes  forth  from  the  clouds,  as  the  full  moon 
stands  out  among  the  stars,  so  she  came  surrounded  by  her 
maidens.  And  Siegfried,  when  he  saw  her,  thought  to  him- 
self : How  could  I dare  to  love  you  ? and  yet,  should  I 

lose  you,  would  that  I were  dead."  Blushing,  she  spoke  to 
him:  Be  welcome,  Siegfried,  noble  knight."  His  heart 

rejoicing,  he  bowed  before  her  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

How  tenderly  and  courteously  the  knight  went  by  her 
side  ! With  loving  glances  looked  at  each  other  the  youth 
and  the  maiden  : secretly  was  it  done." 

Siegfried’s  death  is  surrounded  by  the  full  splendour  of 
imperishable  poetry.^®  As  in  the  older  sagas,  it  is  brought 
about  through  the  rivalry  of  Brunhild  and  Kriemhild.  But 
in  the  Edda  the  altercation  of  the  two  queens  takes  place 


36  Avent.  XIV-XVI. 


8o  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

while  they  are  bathing  in  the  Rhine  stream;^’  here  the  scene 
is  laid  in  front  of  the  cathedral.  Kriemhild  wishes  to  enter 
the  church  before  Brunhild;  Brunhild  steps  in  her  way; 
there  ensues  an  angry  dispute  between  them,  the  climax  of 
which  is  reached  when  Kriemhild  reveals  the  secret  of  Brun- 
hild’s having  been  made  Gunther’s  wife  by  the  disguised 
Siegfried.  Now  Brunhild  resolves  on  Siegfried’s  doom;  the 
evil  Hagen  offers  his  help.  A false  rumour  of  a new  war 
against  the  Saxons  is  spread  abroad.  Hagen  goes  to  ask 
Kriemhild  whether  he  can  by  some  means  protect  Siegfried 
in  the  coming  danger;  and  she,  in  the  anxiety  of  her  heart 
and  in  the  desire  to  save  her  beloved  husband’s  life,  betrays 
a secret  through  which  she  surrenders  him  into  the  hands  of 
his  murderers.  Once  in  his  youth  Siegfried  had  killed  a 
dragon  ; and,  bathing  in  the  dead  monster’s  blood,  he  had 
become  invulnerable,  save  in  one  little  spot  on  his  shoulder, 
where  a linden-leaf  had  lain  while  he  was  bathing.  This 
Kriemhild  reveals  to  Hagen,  and  in  order  to  make  him  more 
sure  she  sews  a cross  upon  Siegfried^s  coat  of  mail  just 
on  that  fatal  spot.  After  having  thus  unconsciously  be- 
trayed her  husband,  she  is  tormented  by  dreadful  forebod- 
ings. Dreaming,  she  sees  him  pursued  by  wild  boars, 
mountains  fall  upon  him,  and  she  loses  sight  of  him.  The 
next  morning  she  beseeches  Siegfried  to  stay  at  home,  but 
he  laughs  at  her  presentiments  and  leaves  her,  as  confident 
as  ever.  The  war  rumours  are  now  denied  and  a hunt- 
ing party  is  arranged  instead.  Siegfried  displays  all  the 
heroic  elements  of  his  character;  he  kills  lions,  boars,  and 
buffaloes;  finally  he  catches  a bear,  fastens  him  to  his  horse, 
and  gallops  back  to  the  tents.  Then  he  lets  the  bear  loose 
into  the  kitchen;  the  cooks  run  about  in  wild  confusion,  but 
Siegfried  laughingly  runs  after  him  and  catches  him  again. 
Now  Hagen  proposes  a race  to  a distant  fountain,  and 
Siegfried  is  the  first  to  accept.  Although  in  full  armour, 


2’’'  Cf.  supra  p,  32. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  8 1 

whilst  the  others  have  put  their  weapons  aside,  he  reaches 
the  goal  first.  Then  he  leans  his  shield  and  sword  against 
a tree  and  w^aits  courteously  until  the  others  have  arrived 
and  until  King  Gunther  has  quenched  his  thirst.  Mean- 
while Hagen  has  taken  away  the  hero’s  weapons,  and  when 
Siegfried  is  stooping  down  to  the  fountain,  he  aims  his  spear 
at  the  cross  on  Siegfried’s  shoulder,  and  the  fatal  deed  is 
done.  At  the  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  when  Kriemhild 
is  about  to  go  to  mass,  the  chamberlain  reports  to  her  that 
a dead  man  is  lying  before  her  door,  and  instantly  she  sees 
it  all  with  dreadful  clearness:  It  is  Siegfried,”  she  cries; 

Brunhild  has  planned  it,  and  Hagen  has  slain  him.” 

It  is  true  that  the  events  which  follow — Kriemhild’s 
change  from  a sweet,  angelic  woman  into  a revengeful, 
bloodthirsty  fury;  her  marriage  with  Ezzel,  king  of  the 
Huns;  her  treachery  to  her  own  kin,  and  the  wholesale 
slaughter  of  the  Burgundians  at  King  Ezzel’s  court — are 
replete  with  all  the  wildness  and  cruelty  of  early  Germanic 
life.  But  even  here  the  tempering  influence  of  a milder 
and  more  cultivated  age  is  discernible, — above  all,  in  the 
Rudiger  episode.^®  Rudiger  is  the  Max  Piccolomini  of  the 
Nihelungenlied.  He  is  pledged  by  sacred  bonds  to  both  of 
the  conflicting  parties.  He  is  Ezzel’s  vassal,  to  Kriemhild  he 
is  attached  by  a special  oath  of  allegiance;  but  Gunther  and 
the  Burgundians  also  are  his  friends:  on  their  way  to 
Ezzel’s  court  he  has  been  their  escort,  he  has  received  them 
as  guests  in  his  own  castle,  his  daughter  he  has  betrothed 
to  Gunther’s  youngest  brother.  Now  he  has  to  make  the 
bitter  choice  between  different  forms  of  felony.  For  which- 
ever side  he  may  take,  he  will  be  a traitor  to  his  word;  and 
even  if  he  keeps  aloof  from  the  combat,  he  will  be  found 
faithless.  For  a long  time  he  wavers.  He  implores  Kriem- 
hild to  release  him  from  his  oath:  Honour  and  life  I 

would  gladly  give  up  for  you;  to  lose  my  soul  I did  not 


Av.  XXXVII.  Cf.  Diu  Klage  (c.  1200)  ed.  Piper  v,  2807  ff. 


82  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITER  AT  [IRE. 

pledge  myself/’  He  beseeches  Ezzel  to  take  back  the 
castles  and  countries  with  which  he  has  invested  him : 
“ Nothing  will  I call  my  own,  as  a homeless  man  will  I go 
into  exile.”  He  prays  to  God  to  let  him  die.  When  no 
other  way  is  left,  he  rushes  into  the  combat,  and  his  prayer 
is  fulfilled:  he  finds  death  by  the  very  sword  which  once, 
in  better  days,  he  had  given  as  a pledge  of  friendship  to 
the  Burgundian  hero  who  now  becomes  his  unwilling 
slayer. 

The  same  fulness  of  the  inner  life,  the  same  variety  of 
emotions,  which  we  observe  in  Rudiger  is  found  in  the  hero- 
ine of  the  other  great  national  epic  of  the  Mid- 
Gudrnn.  High  German  period,  in  Gudrun,  except  that 

here  the  tragic  element  has  only  a subordinate  part.  Gu- 
drun is  undoubtedly  the  most  complex  character  in  the 
whole  German  folk-epic.  She  is  the  first  figure  of  mediaeval 
poetry  which  in  lifelikeness  and  individual  colouring  sug- 
gests the  depth  of  modern  portrait-painting.  Even  in 
characters  like  Siegfried,  Kriemhild,  Hagen,  there  is  a cer- 
tain archaic  inflexibility  and  monotony;  Gudrun  surprises 
us  through  an  originality  and  freedom  of  feeling  which  can- 
not be  surpassed. 

There  is  nothing  in  her  of  the  conventional  blushing 
maiden.  She  is  a charming  mixture  of  pertness  and 
thoughtfulness,  of  coyness  and  impetuosity,  of  purest 
womanly  devotion  and  an  almost  masculine  firmness  of 
decision. 

Artificial  restraint  is  something  entirely  foreign  to  her. 
When  Herwig,  the  man  of  her  choice,  comes  to  woo  her,  her 
heart  leaps  up;  with  girlish  exuberance  she  exclaims  Be- 
lieve me,  I shall  not  reject  you!  Of  all  the  girls  whom  you 
ever  saw  none  is  more  in  love  with  you  than  I!”  When 
news  is  brought  that  Herwig’s  dominions  are  overrun  by 
enemies,  and  that,  if  left  alone,  he  is  powerless  to  resist 


Kudrun  ed.  Martin  str,  657. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  83 


them,  she  weeps  and  wails;  she  throws  herself  at  her  father’s 
feet  and  implores  him  to  succour  her  lover/®  And  when, 
after  her  father’s  departure,  she  is  threatened  by  another 
wooer  with  forcible  abduction,  her  sole  answer  is  an  im- 
pulsive laugh/^ 

It  is  only  after  these  threats  have  been  put  into  practice, 
it  is  only  after  she  has  become  a captive  of  Hartmut,  king 
of  the  Normans,  that  her  natural  buoyancy  of  temper  gives 
way  to  immovable  composure/^  Now  her  lips  are  sealed. 
She  remains  indifferent  to  Hartmut’s  proposals,  indifferent 
to  the  atrocities  of  the  cruel  Gerlind.  Or,  rather,  she  wel- 
comes these  atrocities  as  a help  to  make  her  bear  the  agony 
of  separation  from  her  beloved.  She  refuses  kindness  and 
comfort;  she  delights  in  every  new  humiliation,  and  when 
at  last  Gerlind  orders  her  to  do  the  washing  by  the  seashore, 
she  answers^*:  Noble  queen,  deign  then  to  teach  me  how 

to  wash  your  linen.  Since  I am  not  to  have  joy,  pray  give 
me  still  more  pain.” 

What  a wonderful  transformation,  what  a welling  up  of 
feelings  long  repressed,  when  after  fourteen  years  of  servi- 
tude the  first  hope  of  rescue  dawns  upon  her!  It  is  a cold 
March  morning.  Gudrun  and  her  faithful  Hildeburg  are 
washing  by  the  shore.  They  see  a bird  swimming  toward 
them."*^  Gudrun  says:  “Beautiful  bird,  how  I pity  thee, 
swimming  so  far  on  the  wide  sea!  ” The  bird  answers:  “ I 
am  a messenger  of  God;  and  if  thou  wilt  ask  me,  I shall 
give  thee  tidings  of  thy  friends.”  Gudrun  at  these  words 
throws  herself  on  the  ground  to  pray;  and  then,  trembling, 
gaspingly  asks  and  asks,  until  she  has  heard  of  all  her  dear 
ones,  until  she  knows  that  Herwig  with  his  army  is  coming 
to  deliver  her.  All  night  long  Gudrun  hardly  closes  her 
eyes;  her  thoughts  are  on  the  sea  whence  her  rescuers  are 
to  come.  The  next  morning  she  and  Hildeburg  are  again 

Kudrun  ed.  Martin  sir.  68  r ff.  Ib.  sir,  771. 

Ib,  avent,  20.  21,  Ib.  sir.  1055.  I166  ff. 


84  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

at  the  shore.  Herwig  and  Ortwin,  Gudrun’s  brother,  ap- 
proach in  a boat  in  order  to  explore  the  land.*^  The  girls 
flee  at  sight  of  them,  but  are  overtaken.  Ortwin  asks 
whether  they  know  anything  of  Gudrun.  Gudrun  replies: 
‘‘If  you  are  seeking  for  Gudrun,  your  errand  is  in  vain; 
she  is  dead;  she  died  from  suffering  and  grief.'’  Then 
Herwig  breaks  out  into  tears:  “She  was  mine!  She  was 
my  wife!  ” But  Gudrun  goes  on:  “You  deceive  me!  I 
know  that  Herwig,  Gudrun's  spouse,  is  dead  ! If  he  were 
alive,  the  joy  of  the  world  would  be  mine  ! " And  now  at 
last  all  doubt  is  gone.  “ He  held  her  in  his  arms,"  the 
poet  says,  “ and  kissed  her  I know  not  how  often;  and 
what  they  said  to  each  other  gave  them  both  bliss  and  woe." 

We  have  seen  the  manifestations  of  chivalry  in  the  Min- 
nesong  and  in  the  revived  national  epics.  It  remains  to 
The  court-  follow  its  traces  in  the  so-called  court- epics, 
epics.  These  epics  were  not  based  on  native  popular 

lore,  but  adapted  from  foreign  traditions;  they  were  purposely 
designed,  not  for  the  people  at  large,  but  for  the  exclusive 
audience  of  lords  and  ladies  familiar  with  the  dictates  of 
gallantry  and  noblesse,  which,  together  with  these  poetical 
traditions,  had  been  imported  from  France,  the  native  land 
of  cavaliers.  It  is  in  these  epics  that  we  find  the  chival- 
rous spirit  at  its  height. 

In  the  Nibelungenlied  the  leading  characters,  even  in  their 
knightly  garb,  still  retain  something  of  the  old  heroic  free- 
dom. Walther,  over  and  above  his  being  a gal- 
lant  singer,  was  a loyal  and  devoted  son  of  his 
country.  In  these  courtly  poems  we  are  met  by 
an  all-absorbing  sense  of  class  and  convention.  Of  the 
people  we  hear  nothing;  national  matters  are  left  out  of  sight; 
the  whole  world  seems  to  have  been  converted  into  one  vast 
opportunity  for  fashionable  sport  and  sentimental  love- 
making.  There  is  no  background  to  most  of  these  poems. 


Kudrun  ed.  Martin  sir.  1207  ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  85 

In  reading  them  we  feel  as  though  we  were  seeing  a mirage. 
It  all  hangs  in  the  air.  To  be  sure,  we  meet  names  which 
originally  were  borne  by  poetical  characters  endowed  with 
the  fulness  of  national  life:  the  heroes  of  the  Homeric 
poems  and  of  King  Arthur’s  court.  But  these  names  in  the 
chivalrous  epics  have  entirely  lost  their  native  flavour.  The 
heroes  of  the  Trojan  war  have  been  changed  into  dallying, 
love-sighing  courtiers;  and  King  Arthur  is  no  longer  the 
champion  of  the  Celtic  race  in  its  struggles  with  Romans 
and  Anglo-Saxons,  but  the  typical  representative  of  a fan- 
tastic, high-flown  chivalry.  With  his  noble  wife  Ginevre, 
he  resides  in  his  castle  of  Caerlleon.  Hundreds  of  brill- 
iant knights  and  of  beautiful  women  surround  him.  Among 
them  all  the  most  distinguished  are  his  twelve  paladins, 
the  companions  of  his  Round  Table,  the  most  valiant  of 
the  valiant,  the  noblest  of  the  noble.  They  are  mod- 
elled somewhat  after  the  paladins  of  Kaiser  Karl;  like 
them  they  lead  a life  of  incessant  combat.  But  the  heroes 
of  the  Karl  saga  are  champions  of  religion,  the  heroes  of 
King  Arthur  are  champions  of  etiquette;  the  former  fight 
against  heathendom  and  for  the  expansion  of  Christianity, 
the  latter  maintain  the  cause  of  social  decorum.  Their 
enemies  are  the  uncouth  and  awkward,  braggarts,  liars,  de- 
spisers  of  women,  giants,  dwarfs.  Their  charges  are  noble 
ladies,  orphans,  imprisoned  youths,  enchanted  princesses. 
Even  animals  in  distress  attract  their  generous  attention, 
and  usually  reward  their  rescuers  by  faithful  attachment.'^* 
Some  of  the  love-scenes  in  these  aristocratic  romances 

are  of  exquisite  delicacy.  Famous  is  the  senti- 

\ ...  Delicacy  in 

mental  picture  which  Heinrich  von  Veldeke,  the  portrayal 
in  his  Eneid  (c.  1180),  gives  of  the  love-sick 
Lavinia  when  she  first  sees  the  noble  ^neas.'^^  Her  mother 

Most  renowned  is  the  rescue  of  a lion  from  the  clutches  of  a 
drajifon  by  the  gallant  Iwein.  Hartmann’s  Iwein  ed.  E.  Henrici  v. 
3828  ff.  Cf.  W.  Scherer,  Gesch.  d.  d.  LHt.  p.  158  ff. 

Cf.  Heinrich  von  Veldeke’s  Eneidetd  O.  Behaghel  v.  10031-10631. 


86  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

wished  her  to  marry  the  gallant  Turnus.  But  she  was  quite 
unsusceptible  to  men's  wooings,  and  when  her  mother,  a 
short  time  before,  had  given  her  a long  lecture  about  love, 
she  had  hardly  understood  her.  But  now,  when  she  saw 
the  Trojan  hero,  Lady  Venus  shot  a poisoned  dart  at 
her.  That  gave  her  pain  and  grief  enough.  It  wounded 
her  heart  and  made  her  love,  whether  she  would  or  not, 
even  if  she  should  lose  her  mother's  good-will.  She  was  hot 
and  cold,  she  perspired  and  trembled,  she  was  pale  and 
flushed,  great  were  her  pangs.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
wound  from  which  the  evil  came,  but  she  was  forced  to  think 
of  what  her  mother  had  said  to  her.  At  last  she  recovered 
her  strength  and  spoke  wailing  to  herself:  Now  I do  not 

know  what  to  do.  I do  not  know  what  dazzles  and  bewil- 
ders me  so.  I was  always  hale  and  sound,  and  now  I am 
almost  dead.  Who  has  so  bound  my  heart,  which  only  now 
was  loose  and  free  ? I fear  it  was  the  grief  of  which  my 
mother  spoke."  All  night  she  lies  awake.  In  the  morning 
her  mother,  seeing  her  pale  and  colourless,  insists  on  learn- 
ing what  ails  her,  and  Lavinia  confesses  that  it  is  love. 
But  she  is  too  bashful  to  tell  the  name  of  her  loved  one. 
All  she  can  persuade  herself  to  do  is  to  write  it.  ‘‘Trem- 
blingly she  smoothed  the  wax  and  began  to  write.  E was 
the  first  letter,  then  N,  then  again  E — great  was  her  anguish 
and  pain — then  A and  S.  The  mother  spelled  it  and  ex- 
claimed: ‘ Here  stands  Eneas  ! ' ‘ Yes,  mother  dear  ! ' " 

Most  pathetic  is  the  way  in  which  in  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach's  Parzival  Sigune  mourns  her  dead  lover 
Schionatulander.  She  appears  in  the  poem  four  times, 
separated  by  long  intervals.  The  first  time  she  is  sitting 
by  the  roadside,  tearing  her  hair  in  despair  over  her  lover, 
who  has  just  been  slain."^®  The  second  time  she  is  still  sit- 


Wolfram  von  Eschenbach’s  Parzival ed.  Bartsch  III,  667  ff.  It  is 
well  known  that  Wolfram  made  the  love  of  Sigune  and  Schionatulander 
the  subject  of  a separate  cycle  of  poems,  the  so-called  TitureL 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  8/ 


ting  in  the  same  place,  with  the  embalmed  body  of  the  dead 
man  on  her  lap/^  The  third  time  she  is  living  as  a recluse 
in  a cell,  built  by  her  own  hands,  over  the  grave  of  her  loved 
one/°  The  fourth  time  she  is  found  dead,  kneeling  in  her 
cell  as  if  in  prayer.®^  And  similar  in  its  heart-stirring  effu- 
sion is  the  grief  of  the  heathen  princess  Jafite  over  the  death 
of  her  husband  Roaz,  as  described  in  Wirnt  von  Graven- 
berg’s  Wigalois 

“She  rushed  upon  him,  pressed  him  with  her  white  arms,  and 
kissed  him  as  though  he  were  still  living.  ‘Woe,’  she  cried,  ‘woe, 
my  dear  husband,  now  you  have  lost  your  beautiful  body  for  my 
sake.  But  nothing  shall  keep  me  from  you.  I shall  be  yours  in 
heaven  or  in  hell,  wherever  we  shall  be.  Where  art  thou  now,  Mach- 
met?  In  thy  help  I always  trusted.  Machmet,  sweet  god,  I have 
always  loved  thee.  To  whom  hast  thou  now  left  me  here?  O 
Roaz,  dear  husband,  you  were  my  soul  and  my  body,  I was  your 
heart  and  your  wife.  As  your  heart  was  mine  and  my  will  yours,  so 
your  death  shall  be  my  death,’  She  lifted  him  upon  her  lap,  with 
both  her  arms  she  embraced  him,  her  heart  broke.  So  she  lay  upon 
him  dead.” 

It  is  remarkable  to  see  what  painstaking  care  these  chival- 
rous poets  bestow  upon  a correct  representation  of  the 
manners  and  the  outward  paraphernalia  of  Oonvention- 

courtly  life.  Again  and  again  we  are  reminded 

. . drapery  and 

of  how  this  hero  or  that  one  bore  himself,  how  landscape. 

he  stood  or  sat,  how  he  was  dressed,  what  his  complexion 
was,  or  the  cut  of  his  hair.  We  have  most  elaborate  de- 
scriptions of  castles,  of  weapons,  of  monsters,  of  romantic 
landscapes.  No  doubt  these  descriptions  help  to  make  the 
doings  and  happenings  of  chivalrous  life  more  real  to  us  ; 
they  transport  us  into  its  social  atmosphere.  But  it  cannot 
be  said  that  they  add  anything  to  the  human  interest  of 
these  poems.  It  is  largely  drapery  and  nothing  more. 
However  varied  and  fantastic  the  armours  and  garments  of 


Parzival  ed.  Bartsch  V,  761  ff.  Ih.  IX,  66  ff. 

Ib.  XVI,  517  ff.  Wigalois  ed.  Benecke  v.  7677  ff. 


88  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


these  lords  and  ladies  are,  almost  all  their  faces  look  alike  ; 
however  wild  the  forests,  however  gorgeous  the  ravines,  we 
do  not  hear  the  wind  rustle  in  the  leaves,  or  the  water  roaring 
in  its  fall.  And  over  the  unending  succession  of  fashion- 
able happenings,  of  gallant  tournaments,  of  lovc-scenes, 
both  delicate  and  frivolous,^^  of  bold  abductions  and  miracu- 
lous escapes,  we  entirely  lose  sight  of  the  real  forces  and  the 
true  meaning  of  human  life.  The  very  thing  which  called 
forth  this  poetry  also  tended  to  kill  its  spirit : aristocratic 
exclusiveness  and  social  correctness. 

It  is  the  lasting  glory  of  three  great  men  to  have  risen 
Hartmann,  above  these  narrow  bounds  of  an  artificial  taste. 
Wolfram,  and  thus  to  have  raised  themselves  above  the 

Gottfried.  mass  of  the  chivalrous  epic  poets  as  Walther 

von  der  Vogelweide  stands  out  from  the  crowd  of  the  Minne- 
singers : Hartmann  von  Aue,  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach, 
Gottfried  von  Strassburg.”'* 

These  men  were  far  from  disclaiming  the  ideas  of  chivalry  ; 

on  the  contrary  they  were  full  of  them.  They  avowedly 

Traces  of  i^^eant  to  represent  the  perfect  chivalrous  life. 

conventional  They  even  bowed  not  infrequently  to  its  con- 

chivalry  in  ventional  absurdities.  Hartmann’s  two  most 
them.  • • 4 

pretentious  epics,  Erec  and  IweiUy  are  not  very 

different  in  their  detail  from  the  average  romances  of  the 

knight-errant  style  ; they  show  the  same  superabundance  of 

meaningless  adventures,  the  same  worship  of  courteous 

bearing,  the  same  revelling  in  insignificant  trifles  : the 

bulk  of  a chapter  in  Erec^  for  instance,  is  devoted  to  the 

description  of  a saddle-horse.^^  In  Gottfried’s  Tristan 

the  whole  plot  hinges  on  so  conventional  a device  as  a 

magic  potion,  which  brings  about  a sudden  change  of  char- 

One  of  the  most  frivolous  and  inane  of  all  these  romances  is  the 
Lanzelet  oi  Ulrich  von  Zatzikhoven  (c.  1200). 

Hartmann’s  principal  works  were  written  between  iigo  and  1205. 
Gottfried’s  and  Wolfram’s  poetic  activity  falls  between  1205  and  1220 

Erec  der  Wundercere  ed.  F.  Bech  v,  7289-7765. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  89 

acter,  drawing  together  with  irresistible  power  two  persons 
who  only  a short  time  before  were  kept  apart  from  each  other 
by  grudge  and  hatred.  Even  in  Wolfram’s  Parzival  the 
machinery  of  the  central  action  is  utterly  conventional  and 
comes  dangerously  near  being  a farce.  Parzival  on  one  of 
his  knightly  sallies  gets  by  chance  into  the  castle  of  the 
Holy  Grail,  that  mysterious  symbol  of  consummate  knight- 
hood which  forms  the  spiritual  counterpart  to  the  worldly 
perfection  of  King  Arthur’s  court.  Parzival  was  destined 
to  be  the  royal  high-priest  of  this  knightly  sanctuary. 
There  is,  however,  a rule  that  only  he  shall  actually  attain 
to  that  dignity  who,  brought  face  to  face  with  the  wonders 
of  the  Grail,  not  knowing  what  it  all  means,  asks  a certain 
question  about  it.  Parzival,  from  a misdirected  sense  of 
propriety,  neglects  to  ask  that  question.  He  is  therefore 
not  yet  worthy  of  the  Holy  Grail.  Again  entering  upon 
his  former  life  of  adventure,  he  comes  to  know  where  he 
has  been,  what  the  wonders  of  the  Grail  are,  and  what 
question  he  ought  to  have  asked.  A second  time  he  is 
brought  into  the  presence  of  the  sanctuary,  and  now,  on  the 
strength  of  the  knowledge  meanwhile  acquired,  he  asks  the 
required  question,  and  it  works  to  a charm. 

But  how  insignificant  and  almost  trifling  do  these  blem- 
ishes appear  when  we  realize  what  these  three  men,  Hart- 
mann, Gottfried,  and  Wolfram,  have  done  for  . 

. . . Tneir  essen- 

German  literature  at  large  ! Being  rooted  in  tial  freedom 

chivalry,  they  rose  above  it  ; representing  a life  conven- 
of  class  prejudice  and  conventionality,  they 
preached  toleration  and  liberality  ; each  in  his  own  way, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  they  demonstrated  the  superi- 
ority of  human  feeling  over  the  dead  forms  of  accepted 
rules  and  dogmas.  And  thus  they  have  created  poetic 
characters  which  in  their  peculiar  blending  of  conventional 
form  with  a thoroughly  independent  spirit  mark  the  same 
phase  in  the  development  of  German  culture  which  in  the 
plastic  arts  is  marked  by  those  strangely  fascinating,  half- 


90  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

archaic,  half-modern  sculptures  of  the  fully  matured  Ro- 
manesque style : above  all,  the  portrait-statues  in  the 
cathedral  of  Naumburg,  the  saints  and  prophets  of  the 
golden  gate  at  Freiberg,  and  the  superb  Sibyl  of  Bamberg/® 
Hartmann's  Erec  and  Iwein,  as  already  intimated,  stand 
nearest  the  commonplace  level  of  approved  chivalrous 
Hartmann’s  J^o^'^lity.  Yet  even  here  there  is  at  least  a con- 
Erec  and  flict  between  the  two  principal  motives  of  chiv- 

Iwem.  alrous  conduct : honour  and  love.  Erec,  giving 

himself  up  to  the  joys  of  domestic  love,  comes  near  losing 
his  manly  vigour  and  his  social  reputation.  Iwein,  in  a life 
of  ambition  and  restless  adventure,  forgetting  his  duties  to 
his  wife,  comes  near  losing  her  love.  Both  are  saved  by 
sore  trials  and  womanly  forbearance.  IweiUy  although  as 
a literary  production  more  finished  than  Erec^  is,  from  a 
psychological  point  of  view,  less  interesting,  the  only  epi- 
sode of  deeper  import  being  the  spell  of  insanity  to  which 
the  hero  for  a time  succumbs.  But  in  Erec  there  are  not  a 
few  scenes  of  most  pathetic  power.  It  is  Erec’s  own  wife 
Enite  who  points  out  to  him  that  he  is  in  danger  of  becom- 
ing effeminate.  He  rallies,  and  resolves  to  show  the  world 
that  he  is  still  worthy  of  knighthood.  At  the  same  time,  a 
doubt  in  the  confidence  and  faithfulness  of  his  wife  arises 
in  him.  So,  in  going  forth  to  meet  adventures,  he  compels 
her  to  accompany  him,  and  in  addition  lays  upon  her  the 
capricious  injunction  never  to  speak  to  him.  The  trial  of 
husband  and  wife  in  this  expedition  forms  the  essence  of 
the  poem.  Erec  is  everywhere  victorious ; Enite  con- 
stantly trespasses  against  the  unnatural  command  of  silence, 
especially  by  warning  her  husband  of  approaching  dangers. 
Every  time  the  cruel  man  makes  her  suffer  for  it  ; but 
through  his  very  cruelty  her  faithfulness  and  devotion  are 
brought  out  all  the  more  resplendently.  The  climax  of  the 
romance  is  reached  in  chapters  i6  and  17.  Erec  undergoes 


Cf.  W.  Bode,  Geschichte  der  deutschen  Plastik p,  39. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  9 1 

a terrible  combat  with  two  giants,  in  which  badly  healed 
wounds  of  former  fights  break  out  again.  With  difficulty 
he  rides  back  to  the  place  where  he  has  left  his  wife  ; in 
dismounting  he  faints  and  falls  prostrate  at  her  feet.  Enite 
thinks  him  dead  and  gives  herself  up  to  heart-rending 
lamentation  over  her  beloved  husband.  She  wants  to  die 
and  is  about  to  throw  herself  on  her  husband’s  sword,  when 
a count  Oringlas  of  Limors  appears,  who,  enraptured  by 
Enite’s  beauty,  prevents  her  from  committing  suicide.  On 
his  own  horse  he  takes  her  to  his  castle  ; Erec  also,  appar- 
ently dead,  is  carried  thither,  and  placed  on  a bier  sur- 
rounded with  candles.  Oringlas  determines  to  marry  Enite 
at  once  ; from  the  bier  he  drags  her  into  his  banquet-hall. 
Her  loud  wailings  arouse  Erec  from  his  stupor.  Like  a 
ghost,  wrapped  in  his  white  shroud,  he  appears  in  the  hall. 
The  company  is  terrified,  he  strikes  down  whomever  he 
meets,  the  rest  scatter  in  flight.  Enite  remains  alone  with 
her  husband,  who  now  asks  and  receives  her  forgiveness. 

It  is,  however,  not  in  these  high-flown  representations  of 
chivalry  that  Hartmann’s  art  is  seen  at  its  best,  but  rather 
in  the  humbler  sphere  of  legendary  narrative,  in  jg--g  Qj-egorius 
stories  such  as  that  of  Gregorius^  ‘‘  the  virtuous  and  Der  arme 
sinner,”  who  atones  for  heinous  crimes  unwit- 
tingly  committed  by  retiring  to  a life  of  holy  abnegation  on  a 
barren  rock  in  the  wide  sea  ; or  that  of  Der  arme  Heinrich^ 
the  Suabian  knight,  who,  like  Job,  in  the  midst  of  worldly 
affluence  and  splendour  is  visited  by  a terrible  disease,  who, 
unlike  Job,  abandons  himself  to  grief  and  despair,  but  is 
finally  healed,  both  bodily  and  mentally,  through  the  pure 
faith  and  self-surrender  of  a simple  peasant  girl.  Nowhere 
does  Hartmann  betray  such  a breadth  of  human  sympathy 
as  in  this  latter  poem,  the  only  one  of  his  works  which  was 
inspired  by  a popular  tradition  of  his  own  Suabian  home.^’^ 


Erec  and  Iwein  are  taken  almost  bodily  from  Chrestien  de  Troyes  ; 
Gregorius,  an  ancient  subject  of  legendary  literature,  is  likewise  copied 
from  a French  model ; the  buoch  which  inspired  Hartmann  to  Der 


92  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Nowhere  does  he  show  so  clearly  the  liberalizing  influence 
of  Christian  spirituality.  And  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
in  all  literature  there  is  a finer  type  of  naive  religious  devo- 
tion than  this  lovely  child  of  the  Black  Forest  who  craves 
to  sacrifice  her  life  in  order  to  save  her  master.  How  she 
sits  at  his  feet  while  he  tells  her  parents  of  his  sad  fate 
which  dooms  him  to  lifelong  agony  unless  a pure  maiden  of 
her  own  free  will  dies  for  him  ; how  she  lies  awake  at  night 
weeping  and  grieving  for  the  poor  man,  until  she  suddenly 
is  overjoyed  and  transfigured  by  the  thought  that  it  is  her 
own  mission  to  rescue  him  ; how  she  awakens  her  parents 
and  tells  them  of  her  decision  ; how  the  parents,  heart- 
broken, yet  with  wondering  adoration,  submit  to  it,  because 
they  see  it  is  the  divine  spirit  that  is  speaking  through  their 
child  ; how,  finally,  the  sight  of  this  lovely  creature  joyfully 
offering  her  bosom  to  the  deadly  knife  brings  about  a change 
of  heart  in  Heinrich  himself  ; how  he  recognises  his  unwor- 
thiness to  accept  this  offering  ; how  he  interrupts  the  sacri- 
ficial act;  how  he  resolves  henceforth  to  bear  his  burden 
without  complaint  and  with  trust  in  God  ; how  this  inner 
transformation  is  followed  by  his  delivery  from  disease  ; and 
how  his  rescuer  now  becomes  his  wedded  wife — all  this  is 
told  with  such  a sublime  simplicity  and  childlikeness  that 
even  a poem  like  Goethe’s  Iphigenie  appears  cold  and  studied 
in  comparison  with  it. 

If  Hartmann  von  Aue  tries  to  reconcile  inclination  and 
duty  ; if  he  holds  up  symbols  of  a life  in  which  “ din 
Wolfram’s  maze,”  i.e.,  a happy  harmony  of  instinct  and 

Par2dtral.  reason,  is  the  dominating  rule  of  conduct,^® 

his  great  contemporary  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  strikes 

arme  Heinrich  was  probably  a Latin  version  of  the  legend.  That  Long- 
fellow^s  Golden  Legend  is  based  on  Hartmann’s  poem  is  well  known. 

Der  arme  Heinrich  Bech  z/.  295-3:18.  459-902.  1217-1520.  Cf. 
Goethe’s  strange  verdict,  Tag-  u.  Jahreshefte  18 ii,  Werke  Hempel, 
XXVII,  203. 

In  one  of  his  lyric  poems,  Lieder  ed.  Bech  2,  15,  Hartmann  ex- 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  93 


a still  higher  key.  Indeed,  with  the  one  exception  of 
Dante,  no  mediaeval  poet  has  treated  so  deep  and  por- 
tentous problems  as  this  honest,  ardent,  sinewy  Franco- 
nian, whose  mental  physiogonomy  reminds  one  of  Diirer’s 
famous  knight  riding  fearlessly  in  the  company  of  death 
and  the  devil.  We  observed  the  unsatisfactory  and  formal 
way  in  which  Wolfram  makes  his  Parzival  comply  with  the 
rules  of  the  Holy  Grail.  But  this  defect  does  not  touch  the 
real  core  of  his  wonderful  epic.  After  all,  the  Holy  Grail 
is  only  an  episode,  although  a most  important  one,  of  the 
poem  ; its  true  essence  lies  in  the  development  of  ParzivaPs 
character.  And  who  will  deny  that  in  this  character  Wol- 
fram has  put  before  us,  within  the  forms  of  chivalrous  life, 
an  immortal  symbol  of  struggling,  sinning,  despairing,  but 
finally  redeemed  humanity  ? 

What  an  inimitable  picture  of  the  vague  sweet  dreami- 
ness of  boyhood  is  the  description  of  ParzivaPs  youth  spent 
with  his  mother  in  the  loneliness  of  the  forest ! He  loves 
to  listen  to  the  songs  of  the  birds.  He  roams  about  under 
the  trees  and  gazes  at  them,  his  bosom  swells,  he  runs  home 
with  tears  in  his  eyes  ; his  mother  asks  what  ails  him,  but 
he  cannot  tell.  One  day  he  meets  some  knights  in  the 
forest;  he  is  so  amazed  by  their  shining  armour  that  he  thinks 
it  is  God,  whom  his  mother  has  described  to  him  as  being 
brighter  than  day.  They  tell  him  of  King  Arthur's  court, 
and  in  spite  of  his  mother's  warning  he  sets  out  to  try  his 
fortune  in  the  world.  Inexperienced  and  boyish  as  he  is, 
he  falls  into  strange  errors  and  incurs  ridicule,  especially  by 
the  too  literal  following  out  of  the  precepts  which  his 
mother  and  other  friends  had  given  him.®^  But  even  in  his 
follies,  the  chaste,  unsoiled  mind  of  the  youth  is  proved  ; 
the  good  in  him,  although  not  developed,  is  felt  as  a hidden, 

presses  this  ideal  by  saying  : “ sinne  machent  saeldehaften  man,’"  i.e.  a 
wise  sensuousness  makes  a happy  man.  Cf.  Erstes  Buchlein  ed.  Bech 

V.  1269  ff. 

Parzival  ed.  Bartsch  III,  56  ff.  Ib.  339  ff.  1629  ff* 


94  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

unspent  force.  This  it  is  which  opens  to  him  the  hearts  of 
all  whom  he  meets,  which  makes  him  a welcome  guest  at 
Arthur's  court,  which  wins  him  the  love  and  the  hand  of 
a beautiful  woman,  which  even  makes  him  worthy  to 
reach  the  castle  of  the  Grail  without  knowing  it.  But  here 
he  entirely  misses  his  opportunity.®^  Biassed  by  social 
prejudice  and  etiquette,  he  does  not  listen  to  the  voice  of 
pure  human  sympathy,  he  does  not  ask  what  the  strange 
and  affecting  things  mean  which  he  sees  in  the  castle  ; the 
whole  episode  passes  by  like  a dream  without  leaving  a 
trace.  Returning  to  Arthur’s  court  he  hears  what  he  has 
missed.  And  now,  instead  of  blaming  himself,  he  revolts 
against  God.®^  What  is  God  V he  exclaims.  ‘‘  If  he  were 
mighty,  he  would  not  allow  such  a mockery.  I have  served 
him  as  long  as  I have  lived  and  could  think.  In  future  I 
will  throw  up  his  service.  If  he  has  hatred,  I will  bear 
hatred.”  So  he  hardens  his  heart,  in  dark  despair  he  defies 
all  tender  feelings.  That  which  was  not  to  be  given  to  him 
he  will  now  obtain  by  force. 

Here  the  poet  takes  leave  of  Parzival  for  a time,  con- 
centrating the  main  attention  upon  the  worldly  circle  of  the 
Round  Table  knights,  and  their  main  champion  Gawain. 
Only  from  time  to  time  Parzival  appears  as  if  in  the  dis- 
tance, not  taking  part  in  the  action,  but  keeping  aloof,  and 
in  gloomy  despair  pursuing  his  path.  But  gradually  we  see 
a change  taking  place  in  his  soul.  He  has  a succession  of 
experiences  which  cannot  fail  to  appeal  tO  his  better  nature. 
First  he  meets  a young  maiden  (the  above-mentioned 
Sigune)  living  as  a recluse  by  the  grave  of  her  slain  lover. 
The  sight  of  her  self-sacrificing,  consecrated  life,  and  her 
calm,  consoling  words,  awaken  in  Parzival,  also,  a sense  of 
humility  and  a gentle  hope.®^  Then,  on  a Good  Friday 
morning  he  is  accosted  by  an  old  knight,  who,  being  on  a 
pilgrimage  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  is  astonished  to  see 


62  Parzival  ed.  Bartsch  book  V.  Ib.  VI,  1561  ff.  jx,  62  ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CUL  TURE.  95 

Parzival  on  such  a sacred  day  in  full  armour  and  on  horse- 
back. He  calls  up  in  ParzivaPs  mind  the  memory  of  long- 
forgotten  means  of  grace.®^  Finally,  he  falls  in  with  an  old 
lay  hermit,  who,  in  a most  tender,  benevolent  manner, 
shows  him  his  mistakes,  reveals  to  him  the  eternal  wisdom, 
patience,  and  long-suffering  of  God,  and  succeeds  in  win- 
ning back  his  heart  to  a joyful  view  of  life.®®  Now  Parzival 
is  worthy  to  be  granted  what  first  in  the  folly  of  inexperience 
he  had  trifled  away  and  what  he  had  then  in  vain  tried  to  get 
by  force.  He  is  no  longer  the  innocent,  unconscious  youth; 
he  has  passed  through  the  hard  school  of  life,  he  has 
doubted  and  despaired,  but  through  doubt  he  has  returned 
to  the  old  certainty,  to  the  belief  of  his  childhood.  Now  he 
is  chosen,  as  keeper  of  the  Holy  Grail,  to  become  a guide 
for  others  also  to  the  highest  treasures  of  earthly  life.®^ 
Wolfram  is  the  most  liberal-minded  man  of  mediaeval 
Germany.  Although  deeply  religious,  he  is  far  from  being 
a churchman.  He  even  has  a certain  weakness 
for  the  heathen.  In  one  of  his  expeditions  Par-  ^^olham’s 

toiGrOitioHi 

zival  meets  a pagan.  They  fight  with  each 
other.  Parzival’s  sword  breaks,  but  his  opponent  is  gen- 
erous enough  not  to  take  any  advantage  of  this.  In  the 
conversation  which  ensues,  he  proves  to  be  a half-brother 
of  Parzival’s,  a son  of  the  first,  heathen  wife  of  his  father. 
They  exchange  words  of  friendship  and  affection,  and  the 
heathen  man  is  even  received  into  the  company  of  the 
Round  Table. 

Although  intensely  earnest.  Wolfram  is  far  from  being 
ascetic.  None  of  his  contemporaries  has  depicted  the  joys 
of  manly  sport  more  sympathetically,  none  has  felt  more 

Parzival  ed.  Bartsch  book  iX,  396  ff.  Ib,  585  ff. 

The  poem  ends  with  a brief  allusion  to  the  legend  of  Lohengrin, 
Parzival’s  son,  who  ‘‘in  the  service  of  the  Grail  won  praise”  ; XVI, 
1107  ff.  Cf.  K.  Bartsch,  Parz,  als  psychoL  Eposy  Vortr.  u.  Aufs,  p. 
109  ff. 

68  Ib.  XV,  35  £f. 


96  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


deeply  the  comfort  of  married  life,  none  has  set  greater 

His  humanity  ^ Strong,  doughty  knighthood.  The 

ideal  of  Parzival’s  life  he  expresses  in  the  words 
‘Mes  libes  pris  unt  doch  der  sele  pardis  bejagen  mit  schilt 
und  ouch  mit  sper’*  (the  body’s  prize  and  the  soul’s  para- 
dise conquer  with  shield  and  with  spear);  and  when  the  old 
hermit  absolves  Parzival  from  his  sins,  Wolfram  adds,  with 
evident  gratification,  that  he  at  the  same  time  gave  him 
good  chivalrous  advice.’®  In  no  poem  of  the  Middle  Ages 
does  chivalry  appear  so  complete  and  so  truly  human  as  in 
the  ParzivaL 

It  is  hard  to  understand  fully  the  mental  attitude  of 
Gottfried  von  Strassburg.  On  the  one  hand  he  shows 
himself  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
Triltaii.^  ^ polite  society.  Courtly  manners  are  to  him  a 
most  essential  part  of  ethics.  He  delights  in 
the  description  of  brilliant  fashionable  events;  he  even 
gives  at  times  direct  advice  in  the  liberal  art  of  etiquette; 
nothing  seems  to  him  more  to  the  credit  of  his  hero  Tristan 
than  that  he  knows  how  to  quarter  a deer  in  blamelessly 
correct  fashion.’*  On  the  other  hand,  he  has  no  heart  for 
the  ideal  tasks  of  chivalry;  of  Wolfram’s  enthusiasm  for 
spiritual  knighthood  he  has  not  a spark;  the  sacred  rites  of 
the  church  are  hollow  forms  to  him;  he  does  not  shrink 
from  representing  a judicial  ordeal  as  mockery.’^  He 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  finely  organized  natures 
who  see  the  essential  inanity  of  all  things  and  yet  delight 
in  the  beauty  of  their  outward  aspects;  a doubtful  character, 
without  respect  or  reverence,  but  a true  artist,  with  the 
most  delicate  sense  of  form  and  a caressing  sympathy  for 
human  frailties  and  passions. 


Parzival  Bartsch  IX,  1171  ff.  A similar  ideal  is  represented 
in  Wolfram's  Willehalm.  Cf.  GdgPh.  II,  i,  279. 

Id.  IX,  2057  f.  For  Wolfram’s  relation  to  Chrestien  and  Kyot 
cf.  GdgPh.  II,  I,  p.  278  f. 

Cf,  Tristan  ed.  R.  Bernstein  V,  2786  fi.  Ib.  XXIV,  15737  ff. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE.  97 


His  Tristan  is  the  most  exquisitely  finished  portrayal  in 
mediaeval  literature  of  the  human  soul  swayed  by  emotions. 
Never  has  the  irresistible  power  of  love  been  represented  in 
a more  enchanting,  bewildering,  intoxicating  manner  than 
in  this  poem.’^ 

Tristan  has  been  sent  by  his  uncle  Marke,  king  of  Kur- 
newal,  to  sue  in  his  name  for  the  hand  of  Isolt,  daughter  of 
the  king  of  Ireland.  Isolt  follows  him  grudgingly.  She 
entertains  a twofold  spite  against  him:  for  he  is  the  slayer 
of  Morolt,  her  uncle;  and  now  he  has  come  to  take  her 
away  from  her  home  to  a foreign  country  and  to  an  un- 
known husband.  'On  board  the  ship  which  carries  them 
to  Kurnewal  she  keeps  aloof  from  him,  and  when  he  ap- 
proaches her  she  receives  him  with  bitter  words.  As  for 
Tristan,  he  feels  towards  Isolt  nothing  more  than  the  respect 
due  to  a beautiful  woman,  who  is  moreover  the  betrothed 
of  his  master.  Through  an  accident,  however,  they  both 
drink  of  a magic  love-potion,  and  now  their  hearts  and 
minds  are  completely  changed.’^ 

“ When  the  maiden  and  the  man,  Isolt  and  Tristan,  had  taken  the 
potion,  forthwith  there  appeared  the  world’s  unrest,  Love,  the  hunt- 
ress of  hearts,  and  stole  upon  their  souls.  Before  they  were  aware 
of  it,  she  waved  her  banner  over  them  and  drew  them  both  into  her 
power.  One  and  united  they  became  who  had  been  two  and  divided. 
Isolt’s  hatred  was  gone.  Love,  the  peacemaker,  had  cleansed  and 
smoothed  both  their  hearts  so  that  each  to  the  other  seemed  as  clear 
as  a mirror.  They  had  only  one  heart:  Isolt’s  grief  was  Tristan’s 
pain,  Tristan’s  pain  was  Isolt’s  grief;  they  were  one  in  joy  and  in 
sorrow.  And  yet  they  hid  it  from  each  other.  It  was  doubt  and 
shame  that  made  them  do  so.  She  felt  ashamed,  and  so  did  he;  she 


Cf.  K.  Bartsch,  Tristan  u.  Isolde,  in  Vortr,  m.  Aufs.  /.  132  ff. 
For  the  relation  of  Gottfried  to  his  French  predecessor  “ Thomas  von 
Britanje  ” ( TVeVA  v.  150)  cf.  GdgPh.  II,  i,  284  f. — The  first  German 
poet  to  treat  the  Tristan  saga  was  Eilhart  von  Oberge  (c.  1170). 
Gottfried’s  Tristan,  which  was  left  unfinished,  was  brought  to  a close 
by  Ulrich  von  Tiirheim  (c.  1240)  and  Heinrich  von  Freiberg  (c.  1300). 
Tristan  Bechstein  XVI,  1171'  ^ 


98  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


doubted  him,  he  doubted  her.  Though  blindly  their  hearts’  desire 
drew  them  towards  one  goal,  yet  they  both  dreaded  the  first  step. 
When  Tristan  felt  the  touch  of  Love,  he  said  to  himself  : ‘ No,  Tristan, 
turn  away,  recollect  yourself,  put  it  out  of  your  mind.’  He  battled 
against  his  will,  he  desired  against  his  desire,  he  wished  to  flee  and 
was  arrested.  He  turned  to  Honour  and  Faith  for  help,  but  at  once 
Love  attacked  him  and  brought  him  back  to  her.  Honour  and  Faith 
pressed  upon  him,  but  Love  pressed  still  harder.  Often,  as  prisoners 
are  wont  to  do,  did  he  think  of  escape.  ‘Look  after  others,’  he  said 
to  himself,  ‘ let  your  desire  wander  and  love  who  may  be  loved.’  But 
the  snare  held  him  fast,  and  when  he  probed  his  heart  to  find  a change 
in  it,  he  found  in  it  Love  and  Isolt.  Even  so  it  fared  with  Isolt. 
She,  also,  struggled  like  a bird  in  the  lime,  she  felt  her  senses  sink, 
she  tried  to  lift  herself  up,  but  she  was  held  back  and  drawn  down- 
ward. She  turned  hither  and  thither,  with  hands  and  feet  she  strove, 
but  all  the  more  her  hands  and  feet  sank  into  the  blind  sweetness  of 
Love  and  Tristan.  Shame  turned  her  eyes  away  from  him,  but  Love 
drew  her  heart  back  to  him.  Shame  and  maiden  battled  against  Love 
and  man.  But  as  it  is  said  that  Shame  and  maiden  do  not  live  long, 
so  here  also  they  soon  surrendered;  and  Isolt,  yielding  to  Love,  let 
her  glances  and  her  heart  rest  upon  Tristan.” 

From  this  time  on  they  both  seem  to  have  lost  all  moral 
responsibility.  They  are  driven  about  like  wrecks  on  the 
sea  of  passion,  they  trespass  all  human  and  divine  law. 
Even  before  they  reach  Kurnewal  they  have  sinned, 
and  when  Isolt  becomes  Marke’s  wife  she  has  already 
broken  her  plight.  Hardly  an  attempt  is  made  at  hushing 
the  matter.  Even  at  Markers  court  Tristan  and  Isolt  find 
constant  opportunity  to  see  each  other  and  to  continue 
their  criminal  relation.  Marke  constantly  suspects,  and  is 
constantly  deceived;  and  the  poet,  although  seeming  to 
disapprove  of  the  immorality  of  all  this,  at  heart  evidently 
delights  in  the  ever-new  tricks  and  devices  which  the  lovers 
find  for  gratifying  their  fatal  desire.  At  last  Tristan  is 
exiled.  He  enters  upon  a new  life  of  adventure  and 
struggle;  he  again  falls  victim  to  his  passion  by  losing  his 
heart  to  another  Isolt  who  reminds  him  of  his  first  love.  A 
new  conflict  arises  in  his  sou]*  his  old  and  his  new  love 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  CHIVALRIC  CULTURE,  99 


Struggle  with  each  other;  self-reproach  and  gloomy  fore- 
bodings take  hold  of  him. — Here  the  poem  breaks  off.  But 
we  may  assume  that  it  was  the  intention  of  the  poet  to  let 
the  hero  die  in  the  midst  of  his  moral  agonies,  his  feelings 
exhausted,  his  heart  broken. 

In  Gottfried  von  Strassburg  we  see  the  dissolution  of 
chivalric  society.  Passion  overleaps  all  the  barriers  of 
social  custom  and  moral  law.  An  elemental  instinct  breaks 
down  the  rules  of  tradition  and  accepted  respectability. 
As  in  the  poetry  of  the  Migration  period,  the  individual 
appears  again  as  its  own  centre,  its  own  guiding  star,  its 
own  ruin.  The  ideals  of  mediaeval  life  have  lost  their 
meaning.’^® 

We  shall  see,  in  the  chapter  following,  the  growth  of  a 
new  life,  the  appearance  of  a new  social  spirit : the  rise  of 
the  middle  classes,  and  the  first  advancing  steps  of  modern 
Democracy. 

Cf.  for  the  whole  subject  of  this  chapter,  K.  Lamprecht  Lc^  III, 
204-253. 


CHAPTER  IV, 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 

(From  the  Middle  of  the  Thirteenth  to  the  Beginning  of  the  Sixteenth 

Century.) 

The  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  marks  the  transition 
from  mediaeval  to  modern  life. 

The  two  great  institutions  which  had  controlled  European 
society  ever  since  the  time  of  Charles  the  Great,  empire  and 
Decline  of  em  were  now  showing  unmistakable  signs 

pireand  of  decay.  The  downfall  of  the  Hohenstaufen 
papacy.  dynasty  (1268)  put  an  end  to  German  predomi- 
nance in  Europe.  The  imperial  dignity,  divested  of  national 
import,  became  a mere  party  name  and  a pretext  for  sec- 
tional aspirations.  Nothing  is  more  significant  of  the  utter 
dissolution  of  national  unity  in  Germany  during  the  follow- 
ing centuries  than  that  in  1347,  at  a time  when  Paris  and 
London  had  for  generations  been  the  acknowledged  centres 
of  French  and  English  political  life,  the  seat  of  the  German 
government  was  transferred  for  more  than  fifty  years  to 
Prague,  the  capital  of  a territory  un-German  in  population 
and  until  then  hardly  connected  with  the  political  system 
of  the  German  empire.  During  the  whole  period  from 
Rudolf  von  Habsburg  (d.  1291)  to  Maximilian  I.  (d.  1519) 
there  appeared  not  a single  ruler  who  succeeded  in  enforc- 
ing the  most  ordinary  right  and  performing  the  most 
ordinary  duty  of  government:  the  levying  of  taxes  and  the 
maintenance  of  public  order. 

Less  apparent,  but  all  the  more  significant,  were  the 
symptoms  of  decay  threatening  the  very  root  of  the  ecclesF 

100 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MW  DIE  CLASSES. 


tot 


astical  system  of  the  time.  Never,  to  be  sure,  was  the  out- 
ward condition  of  the  church  more  flourishing  than  in  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  Never  did  monasti- 
cism  exert  such  an  omnipresent  influence  upon  all  classes 
of  the  people  as  in  the  period  following  the  foundation  of 
the  Franciscan  and  Dominican  orders  (beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  century).  Never  was  the  Christian  doctrine  ex- 
pounded and  defended  by  more  learned  or  zealous  men 
than  the  great  scholastic  writers  of  the  thirteenth  century: 
Albert  of  Cologne  (d.  1280),  Thomas  of  Aquino  (d.  1274), 
Duns  Scotus  (d.  1308).  Never  did  Christian  art  bring  forth 
more  perfect  embodiments  of  Christian  ideals  than  the 
wonderful  cathedrals  which  during  the  same  century  rose 
in  Amiens,  Cologne,  and  Canterbury. 

But  all  this  outward  splendour  and  activity  could  not  cover 
up  the  fact  that  the  most  advanced  minds  of  the  age,  at  any 
rate,  were  beginning  to  fall  away  from  a religious  system 
which  regarded  the  pope  as  not  only  the  infallible  inter- 
preter of  eternal  truth,  but  also  the  keeper  of  supreme 
temporal  power.  In  Italy,  Dante,  the  forerunner  of 
Humanism,  raised  the  cry  of  indignant  protest  against  the 
degradation  of  divine  offices  to  human  ends,'  upholding 
at  the  same  time  the  divine  origin  and  essential  indepen- 
dence of  the  temporal  state.* *  In  France  king  Philip  the 
Fair  called  up  his  people  against  the  attempts  of  the  pope 
to  interfere  with  the  internal  affairs  of  the  nation,  and 
public  opinion  rallied  solidly  around  the  standard  of  the 
crown.  In  Germany  the  violent  struggle  between  church 
and  state  during  the  reign  of  Ludwig  of  Bavaria  led  (in 
1338)  to  a solemn  declaration  by  the  assembled  princes 
that  the  election  by  the  princes,  not  the  papal  consecra- 
tion, was  the  source  of  imperial  power.  In  England  the 


* Cf. , e.g..  Inferno  XIX,  115. 

* This  is  the  central  thought  of  his  treatise  De  monarchia  ; cf.  es- 
pecially III,  13--15  ed.  Witte. 


102  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


bold  accusations  of  Wycliffe  (1324-84)  against  Romish 
corruption  and  usurpation  were  re-echoed  at  least  among 
the  learned,  and  were  upheld  by  Parliament.  And  not 
long  after,  the  spirit  of  revolt  against  mediaeval  hierarchy 
found  its  first  great  martyr  and  hero  in  Johannes^  Hus 
(d.  1415). 

While  thus  the  main  supports  of  mediaeval  life  were 
gradually  crumbling  away,  there  arose  at  the  same  time  two 
forces  destined  to  become  the  chief  instruments 

Thenewpolit-  ^ civilization:  the  sovereign  power  of 

ical  powers  I ...  . 

the  territorial  princes  and  the  communal  inde- 
pendence of  the  cities.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  both 
these  forces  combined  to  prepare  the  way  for  modern  de- 
mocracy, the  princes  by  levelling  down,  the  cities  by  level- 
ling up;  the  former  by  forcing  their  subjects  into  equality, 
the  latter  by  opening  their  gates  to  liberty,  both  by  intro- 
ducing a new  social  factor:  the  middle  classes. 

It  was  the  territorial  princes  who  broke  up  the  feudal 
state.  Their  claims  of  sovereignty  did  not,  like  those  of 
the  emperor,  rest  upon  a personal  relation  of 

The  territorial  allegiance,  but  upon  the  hereditary  transmission 
princes.  . . 

of  a public  office.  And  the  history  of  the  four- 
teenth, fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries  is  a record  of  one 
continuous  and  finally  successful  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
princes  to  assert  the  supreme  power  of  such  office  against 
the  conflicting  interests  of  all  classes,  the  clergy  and  the 
nobility  as  well  as  the  bourgeoisie.  Many  time-honoured 
rights  were  crushed  in  this  struggle,  many  well-founded 
privileges  were  trampled  into  the  ground;  and  yet  it  is 
impossible  not  to  see  that  without  this  demolition  of  medi- 
seval  institutions  and  class  distinctions  the  structure  of 
the  modern  state  could  not  have  been  established.  And  it 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten  that  it  was  the  princes  who  dur- 
ing the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  founded  most  of 
the  universities  which  to-day  are  the  pride  of  Germany; 
that  it  was  they  who  in  the  sixteenth  century  saved  the 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  IO3 

religious  Reformation  from  being  smothered  in  party 
hatred  and  fanaticism. 

The  whole  history  of  the  German  cities  from  the  tenth 
to  the  fifteenth  century  is  a succession  of  stages  of  emanci- 
pation. From  settlements  of  artisans  employed 
by  the  bishop  and  living  around  the  bishop^s 
castle,  they  had  in  course  of  time  changed  into  independent 
communities  of  free  citizens,  making  and  executing  their 
own  laws,  electing  their  own  magistrates,  ranking  with  the 
princes  and  barons  as  one  of  the  great  estates  of  the  empire, 
upholding  the  honour  of  the  common  fatherland  at  home 
and  abroad  at  a time  when  the  central  government  had 
become  decrepit  and  powerless.  An  animated  description 
from  the  pen  of  the  Italian  cardinal  Enea  Silvio,  who 
visited  Germany  in  1458,  gives  us  a picture  of  the  material 
prosperity  of  the  German  cities  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
“We  say  frankly,”  he  declares,®  “never  has  Germany  been 
richer,  never  more  resplendent  than  to-day.  Nothing  more 
magnificent  or  beautiful  can  be  found  in  all  Europe  than 
Cologne  with  its  wonderful  churches,  city  halls,  towers 
and  palaces,  its  stately  burghers,  its  noble  stream,  its  fer- 
tile cornfields.”  And  equally  beautiful  are  Mainz,  Worms, 
Speier,  Basel,  Bern.  “ Some  of  the  houses  of  Strassburg 
citizens  are  so  proud  and  costly  that  no  king  would  disdain 
to  live  in  them.  Certainly  the  kings  of  Scotland  would  be 
glad  if  they  were  housed  as  well  as  the  moderately  well-to-do 
burghers  of  Niirnberg.  Augsburg  is  not  surpassed  in  riches 
by  any  city  in  the  world;  Vienna  has  some  palaces  and 
churches  which  even  Italy  may  envy.”  It  would  be  hard 
to  overrate  the  social  importance  of  this  outward  prosperity 
of  the  German  cities  in  the  later  Middle  Ages,  spreading  as 
it  did  over  a large  geographical  area,  and  affording  comfort 


^ Aeneas  Sylvius  De  ritu^  situ^  moribus  et  conditione  Germaniae^ 
Opera  ed.  Hopperus,  Basileae  1571,/.  1052-55.  Cf.  H.  Janitschek, 
Geschichte  d.  deutschen  Malerei p.  225. 


104  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  a class  of  people  who  during  the  height  of  chivalrous 
culture  were  still  confined  to  the  hard  struggle  for  bare 
existence.  But  even  more  important  than  this  prosperity 
itself  is  the  fact  that  it  was  the  fruit  of  a long-sustained 
fight  for  independence.  It  seems  like  an  embodiment  of 
the  very  spirit  of  this  fight  when  Eike  von  Repgow  in  his 
Sachsenspiegel  (1230)  says^:  ‘‘Servitude  is  against  God’s 
will.  It  has  its  origin  in  constraint,  imprisonment,  and 
illegitimate  force,  which  in  times  of  old  were  introduced  by 
usurpation,  and  which  now  are  held  up  to  us  as  right.”  The 
very  consciousness  of  having  fought  for  their  existence  gave 
to  the  German  cities  that  character  of  intellectual  sturdi- 
ness and  fearlessness  which  made  them  the  principal  seats 
of  the  Mystic  movement,  which  opened  their  gates  to  Hu- 
manism, which  rendered  them  the  firmest  allies  of  Luther. 

The  literature  which  corresponds  to  this  changed  state  of 
affairs  is  at  first  sight  somewhat  disappointing,  and  seems  to 
offer  little  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  student 
literary  history.  The  heroic  grandeur  of  the 
national  epics,  the  aristocratic  noblesse  of  the 
Minnesong,  the  dignity  and  grace  of  the  court  romances,  are 
now  things  of  the  past.  Their  place  is  taken  by  produc- 
tions which  reveal  depth  rather  than  beauty,  truthfulness 
rather  than  wealth  of  imagination,  common-sense  rather  than 
genius.  One  generation  at  the  point  of  transition  from  the 
twelfth  to  the  thirteenth  century  had  produced  Hartmann, 
Wolfram,  Gottfried,  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  the  singers 
of  the  Nibelungenlied  and  of  Gudrun ; now  there  follow 
three  centuries  without  a poet  whose  name  is  counted  among 
the  great  names  of  history. 


^ Sachsenspiegel  ed.  Homeyer,  Landr.  Ill,  42.  The  same  spirit  of 
civic  independence  permeates  the  city  chronicles  of  the  time,  such  as 
those  of  Strassburg  by  Fritsche  Closener  (1362)  and  Jacob  Twinger 
von  Kdnigshofen  (1415),  Konrad  Justinger’s  Chronik  von  Bern 
(1420). — Cf.  for  this  whole  subject  K.  Lamprecht  l.c.  IV,  211-303. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  I05 


And  yet  these  same  centuries,  far  from  being  a waste  in 
the  development  of  German  civilization,  belong  to  the  most 
fruitful  epochs  which  the  history  of  the  German 
mind  has  ever  seen.  If  they  have  given  us  no  Individualism, 
Wolfram,  they  prepared  the  way  for  a Diirer ; 
if  they  produced  no  Nibelungenlied.,  they  brought  forth  a 
prose  literature  of  marvellous  wealth  and  power.  If  they 
fell  behind  the  time  of  the  crusades  in  explosive  enthusi- 
asm and  chivalrous  devotion,  they  brought  to  life  a prin- 
ciple without  which  there  would  have  been  no  Luther,  no 
Lessing,  no  Kant,  no  Goethe,  in  short  no  modern  life:  the 
principle  of  individualism. 

It  would  of  course  be  a mistake  to  attach  to  the  word 
individualism,  when  applied  to  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
same  fulness  of  meaning  which  it  has  for  us  of  the  present 
day.  No  mediaeval  man  ever  thought  of  himself  as  a per- 
fectly independent  being  founded  only  on  himself,  or  with- 
out a most  direct  and  definite  relation  to  some  larger 
organism,  be  it  empire,  church,  city,  or  guild.  No  mediae- 
val man  ever  seriously  doubted  that  the  institutions  within 
which  he  lived  were  divinely  established  ordinances,  far 
superior  and  quite  inaccessible  to  his  own  individual  reason 
and  judgment.  No  mediaeval  man  would  ever  have  ad- 
mitted that  he  conceived  nature  to  be  other  than  the  crea- 
tion of  an  extramundane  God,  destined  to  glorifyits  creator 
and  to  please  the  eye  of  man.  It  was  reserved  for  the 
eighteenth  century  to  draw  the  last  consequences  of  indi- 
vidualism; to  see  in  man,  in  each  individual  man,  an  inde- 
pendent and  complete  entity;  to  derive  the  origin  of  state, 
church,  and  society  from  the  spontaneous  action  of  these 
independent  individuals;  and  to  consider  nature  as  a sys- 
tem of  forces  sufficient  unto  themselves.  When  we  speak 
of  individualism  in  the  declining  centuries  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  we  mean  by  it  that  these  centuries  initiated  the  move- 
ment which  the  eighteenth  century  brought  to  a climax. 
Now,  for  the  first  time  since  the  decay  of  classic  literature, 


I06  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

people  at  large  began  to  give  way  to  emotional  introspec- 
tion; now  for  the  first  time  they  dared  to  throw  off  the 
disguises  of  rank  and  station  and  lay  bare  the  human  heart 
which  is  hidden  under  it  all.  Now  for  the  first  time  popu- 
lar criticism  lifted  its  head  and  attacked,  if  not  the  existing 
order  of  things  itself,  at  least  its  evils  and  abuses.  And 
now  for  the  first  time  men  were  seized  by  a common  im- 
pulse to  reproduce  the  reality  of  nature  in  its  thousandfold 
manifestations,  and  to  enter  into  the  mysterious  affinity 
of  its  life  with  ours. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  first  traces  of  this  movement 
are  to  be  seen  in  the  very  climax  of  the  preceding  literary 
epoch.  The  Nibelungenlied  abounds  in  scenes  of  wonder- 
ful realistic  power.  Hartmann,  Wolfram,  Gottfried,  al- 
though they  give  a consummate  expression  to  the  ideals  of 
chivalry,  at  the  same  time  demonstrate,  each  in  his  own 
way,  the  superiority  of  human  feeling  over  social  conven- 
tions. Walther  is  quite  as  unrestrained  in  revealing  his 
own  personal  emotions  as  he  is  bold  in  his  attacks  against 
the  church  and  the  princes.  And  one  need  only  to  think 
of  the  humane  refinement  preached  in  the  Welscher  Cast  by 
Thomasin  von  Zirclaria  (1216),  of  Freidank’s  passionate 
declamations  against  Romish  corruption  (about  1230),  of 
the  graphic  descriptions  of  peasant  life  by  Neidhart  von 
Reuenthal  (d.  about  1240),  of  the  moral  enthusiasm  revealed 
in  the  poetry  of  Reinmar  von  Zweter  (d.  about  1250),  of 
the  sympathetic  view  of  burgherdom  taken  in  The  Good 
Gerhard  by  Rudolf  von  Ems  (d.  1254),  of  the  intense  spirit- 
uality displayed  in  The  World's  Reward  or  The  Golden 
Forge  by  Konrad  von  Wurzburg  (d.  1287),  of  the  delicacy 
of  sentiment  pervading  the  love-songs  of  a Hadlaub  (about 
1300)  or  Frauenlob  (d.  1318),  to  realize  that  even  in  the 
thirteenth  century  the  ideals  of  chivalry  had  by  no  means 
ceased  to  be  living  forces  in  the  widening  and  deepening  of 
human  culture.  And  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it 
was  the  material  and  intellectual  awakening  of  the  middle 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES,  lO/ 


classes  and  the  liberalizing  influence  of  city  life  which  first 
made  room  for  the  full  development  of  the  modern  spirit: 
the  spirit  of  subjectivism,  of  criticism,  of  sympathy  with 
life  in  all  its  forms  and  phases. 

The  first  remarkable  manifestation  of  this  new  spirit  is 
to  be  found  in  the  greater  freedom  of  religious  oratory 
brought  about  through  the  activity  of  the  two 
great  preaching  orders  of  the  Franciscans  and 
the  Dominicans.  Previous  to  the  establishment 
of  these  orders  the  traditional  preaching  service  was  con> 
fined  within  certain  clearly  marked  limitations.  There  were 
sermons,  as  a rule,  only  on  Sundays  and  holy-days,  only 
within  a church  or  chapel,  only  by  the  regularly  appointed 
parson  or  his  superiors;  and  most  of  the  sermons  were  of  a 
decidedly  conventional  and  stereotyped  character.^  From 
all  these  limitations  the  new  preaching  orders  were  exempt. 
They  were  endowed  with  a special  papal  privilege  to  dis- 
pense the  word  of  God  in  all  dioceses,  and  the  bishops 
were  not  slow  to  impress  upon  their  subordinates  the  duty 
of  receiving  these  preaching  friars  readily  and  willingly. 
The  Franciscan  preacher,  then,  would  go  about  from  town 
to  town,  he  would  speak  on  whatever  text  he  might  choose, 
on  any  day,  in  any  place,  in  the  public  square,  before  the 
city  gates,  from  steeples,  from  trees®;  and  it  is  easy  to  see 
how  this  freedom  of  movement  would  tend  to  widen  the 
range  of  his  thought,  to  bring  him  into  closer  touch  with  the 
world,  to  impart  to  his  speech  a fuller  grasp  of  life. 

The  typical  representative  of  this  new  method  of  sermon- 
izing is  Berthold  of  Regensburg  (d.  1272),  the  berthold  of 
greatest  orator  of  the  thirteenth  century.  No  Regensburg, 
mediaeval  preacher,  if  we  except  Bernhard  of  Clairvaux, 

® Cf.  R.  Cruel,  Gesch.  d.  deutschen  Predigt  im  MA,  p.  48  f.  78.  279  f. 
It  would  be  a mistake  to  assume  that  there  existed  in  the  Middle  Ages 
a universally  recognised  obligation  for  every  parson  to  preach  on 
every  Sunday.  Ib.  p.  208  ff. 

® Cf.  W.  Wackernagel,  Altdeutsche  Predigten  u,  Gebete p,  362. 


I08  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

seems  to  have  drawn  audiences  equal  to  his  in  size  and 
enthusiasm/  The  manuscript  of  one  of  his  sermons  con- 
tains the  marginal  note  : “ Many  thousands  listened  to  it 
at  Zurich  before  the  gate  ; ” and  in  other  manuscripts 
audiences  of  forty,  sixty,  a hundred,  nay  two  hundred, 
thousand  people  are  recorded — statements  which,  even 
though  they  are  palpable  exaggerations,  show  the  extraor- 
dinary influence  exerted  by  this  man.  Not  a few  fancied 
they  saw  a halo  around  his  head  while  he  was  speaking; 
and  many  a proud  knight  would  return  stolen  church  prop- 
erty, many  a frivolous  courtesan  would  abjure  the  lusts  of 
the  world,  touched  by  his  speech.  Once,  when  his  thunder- 
ing words  have  terrified  one  of  his  hearers,  a poor  daughter 
of  sin,  to  such  a degree  that  she  breaks  down,  he  calls  out 
to  the  assembled  populace:  Who  of  you  will  take  this  re- 

pentant daughter  for  a wife  ? I will  endow  her  with  a mar- 
riage-portion.” A man  steps  forward  to  accept  the  offer. 
Berthold  promises  ten  pounds,  and  sends  some  men  through 
the  crowd  to  collect  the  sum.  While  the  collection  is  being 
taken,  he  suddenly  exclaims:  Enough!  we  have  the  money 

that  is  needed.”  And  lo!  exactly  ten  pounds,  not  a penny 
less  or  more,  had  been  collected. 

A true  man  of  the  people,  Berthold  knew  how  to  appeal 
to  the  instincts  of  the  common  man,  how  to  enliven  his 
oratory  with  allusions  to  every-day  occurrences,  how  to 
illustrate  even  the  supernatural  by  graphic  and  striking 
imagery.  Here  is  how,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  he  depicts 
the  glory  of  God®:  “ No  mother  ever  was  so  fond  of  her 
child  that,  if  she  were  to  look  at  it  for  three  days  with- 
out intermission,  she  would  not  on  the  fourth  prefer  eating 
a piece  of  bread.  But  if  you  should  say  to  a man  who  is 
with  God:  ‘Thou  hast  ten  children  on  earth,  and  for  every 
one  of  them  thou  shalt  obtain  honour  and  riches  as  long 


For  the  following  cf.  Wackernagel  /.  c,  p.  354  ff. 

® Berthold  von  Regensburg  ed.  Pfeiffer  and  Strobl,  I,  388  ff. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES,  lOg 


as  they  live  if  thou  wilt  only  turn  thy  eyes  from  God  as 
long  as  it  takes  me  to  turn  my  hand/ — that  man  would 
rather  let  his  children  go  a-begging  than  turn  his  face  from 
God  this  single  moment.  Of  the  glory  of  God  we  can 
speak  only  in  images.  For  all  that  we  could  ever  say  about 
it,  that  is  just  as  though  the  unborn  babe  in  its  mother’s 
womb  were  to  tell  of  all  the  beauty  and  glory  of  the  world, 
of  the  shining  sun,  of  the  shining  stars,  of  the  power  and 
manifold  colours  of  precious  metals,  of  the  power  and  per- 
fume of  noble  spices,  of  the  beautiful  things  made  of  silk 
and  gold,  of  all  the  sweet  voices  of  the  world,  of  the  song 
of  birds  and  the  sound  of  harps,  and  of  the  variegated 
colours  of  the  flowers.  As  little  as  the  babe  in  the  mother’s 
womb  which  never  saw  either  good  or  bad  and  never  felt  a 
single  joy,  could  talk  of  this,— so  little  can  we  talk  of  the 
unspeakable  delight  which  is  in  heaven^  or  of  the  beauteous 
face  of  the  living  God.” 

In  all  this  we  see  an  intensity  of  the  inner  life,  a passion- 
ate glow  of  individual  feeling,  which  it  is  hard  to  imagine 
in  permanent  accord  with  the  fixed  forms  of  an  accepted 
creed;  and  if  men  like  Berthold  and  his  teacher,  David  of 
Augsburg,**  with  all  their  wealth  of  original  thought,  re- 
rnained  most  zealous  supporters  of  outward  churchliness, 
they  were  soon  followed  by  men  whom  the  contrast  between 
individual  inspiration  and  traditional  dogma  was  to  lead 
to  a more  or  less  open  opposition  against  the  whole  hier- 
archical system:  the  classics  of  German  Mysticism  in  the 
fourteenth  century. 

Each  of  the  three  great  mystic  preachers  of  the  four- 
teenth century  seems  to  have  been  affected  by  popular  move- 
ments on  which  the  church  had  laid  the  oppro- 
brium of  unsound  and  dangerous  doctrine.  One 
of  the  chief  accusations  raised  against  Master  Eckhart 


^ Cf.  F.  Pfeiffer,  Deutsche  Mysiiker  des  Jahrkdts  I,  309  ff. ; and 
Ztschr.  f.  d.  Altert.  IX,  i ff. 


no  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


(d.  1327)  by  the  papal  inquisition  was  that  he  had  abetted 
the  heresies  of  the  Beghards  and  the  “ Brethren  of  the  Free 
Spirit/'^®  Heinrich  Suso  (d.  1366)  was  censured  by  the 
authorities  of  his  order  for  having  defended  Eckhart  against 
this  indictment/^  And  Johannes  Tauler  (d.  1361),  devout 
believer  that  he  was  in  the  ecclesiastical  means  of  grace, 
expressed  his  sympathy  with  the  principle  of  universal 
priesthood  which  in  the  contemporary  movement  of  the 
^‘Friends  of  God  found  such  a large  popular  following,  in 
the  memorable  words  Not  the  churches  make  the  peo- 
ple holy,  but  the  people  make  the  churches  holy/’ 

In  originality  of  thought  and  boldness  of  speculation 
Eckhart  unquestionably  was  the  greatest  of  these  men;  nay, 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  one  of  those 
rare  prophetic  spirits  who  anticipate  by  whole 
centuries  the  development  of  mankind.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  Eckhart  himself  would  indignantly  have  refused 
to  be  classed  with  modern  pantheists.  In  all  his  teachings 
we  see  the  earnest  desire  to  reconcile  his  own  thought 
with  the  doctrine  of  the  church.  And  yet  how  utterly 
impossible  it  is  to  reconcile  with  orthodox  theology  such 
sayings  as  these ‘‘In  the  moment  that  God  was,  the 
world  was  created.  God  created  the  world  and  I with  him. 
Before  the  creatures  were,  God  was  not  God.  God  is  all 
things;  all  things  are  God.  The  Father  begets  me,  his  son, 
without  cessation;  I say  more:  he  begets  in  me  himself 
and  in  himself  me.  The  eye  with  which  I see  God  is  the 
same  eye  with  which  God  sees  me.  My  eye  and  God’s  eye 
are  one  eye.”  How  nearly  related  to  the  Hegelian  system 
is  his  conception  of  the  world  as  a continual  emanation  of 
divinity,  a continual  transition  of  the  Godhead  from 


Cf.  W.  Preger,  Gesch,  d.  deutschen  Mystik  I,  349  ff. 

Ib.  II,  359. 

Cf.  Denifle,  Tauler s Bekehrung  p.  80,  Quellen  u.  Forsc hungen 
XXXVI. 

Cf.  Pfeiffer,  Mystiker  II,  579.  581.  281.  282.  311.  205.  312. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES, 


III 


Naught  to  Aught,  from  the  potential  to  the  actual,  from  the 
formless  one  to  the  multiform  many!  How  nearly  akin  to 
the  views  of  the  aged  Goethe  about  the  perfect  personality 
is  his  dream  of  the  union  of  the  human  soul  with  the  God- 
head— a union  so  complete  and  absolute  that  the  soul  is 
utterly  absorbed  in  it,  as  the  morning  red  is  absorbed  in 
the  sunlight”  1 And  have  we  not  an  almost  literal  antici- 
pation of  Schiller’s  definition  of  a beautiful  soul  ” in  Eck- 
hart’s  definition  of  highest  spirituality?  The  highest,”  he 
says,^^  ‘Svhich  the  spirit  may  attain  in  this  mortal  clay  is 
this:  to  live  in  such  a manner  that  virtue  is  no  longer  an 
effort,  i.e.  that  all  virtues  have  become  so  natural  to  the 
soul,  that  it  not  only  practises  virtue  purposely,  but  makes 
all  virtues  shine  forth  from  itself  unconsciously  even  as 
though  it  were  virtue  itself.” 

Heinrich  Suso  has  been  called  the  Ulrich  von  Lichten- 
stein of  Mysticism.  And,  indeed,  there  is  a certain  resem- 
blance between  the  worldly  knight  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  who  devoted  a whole  life  of 
fantastic  adventure  to  the  hopeless  task  of  winning  the 
heart  of  his  chosen  lady,  and  this  Dominican  monk  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  who  sighs  and  pines  and  mortifies  him- 
self for  the  sake  of  that  most  fair  of  all  fair  maidens  : 
eternal  wisdom.  Ulrich  von  Lichtenstein  was  beside  him- 
self with  delight  when  he  was  allowed  to  take  a sip  of  the 
water  in  which  his  lady  love  had  washed  her  hands;  Suso 
cannot  eat  an  apple  without  losing  himself  in  senti- 
mental reflections  on  divine  subjects  : three  of  the  pieces 
he  eats  in  honour  of  the  Trinity,  the  fourth  he  offers  to  the 
blessed  Virgin,  “ that  she  might  give  it  to  her  dear  little 
child.”  Ulrich  cut  off  his  finger  and  sent  it  to  his  mis- 
tress as  a token  of  his  allegiance;  Suso  inflicts  upon  himself 


Pfeiffer  /.  c.  491.  Cf.  Ztschr.  f,  histor,  Theol.  1864,/.  i6g. 

Cf.  F.  Vetter,  Ein  Mystikerpaar  d.  Jahrhdts p,  31  f.  J.  Bacht- 
old,  Gesch.  d.  deutschen  Litt,  in  d,  Schweiz p.  215  ff. 


Hi  SQ€ML  FOMOMM  IN  GERMAN  UTMRATURE. 


day  in  and  day  out  the  most  extraordinary  chastisements 
and  tortures.  He  chains  himself,  he  lies  on  a cross  attached 
to  his  back  and  covered  with  pointed  iron  nails,  he  suffers 
himself  to  be  eaten  up  with  vermin,  for  more  than  twenty 
years  he  refrains  from  washing  himself.'^  But  with  all  this, 
what  a difference  between  the  Quixotic  knight  and  the 
Quixotic  monk!  In  the  former  nothing  but  an  empty  play 
of  fancy;  a life  regulated  by  the  shallow  dictates  of  courtly 
etiquette;  feelings  utterly  conventional  and  impersonal.  In 
the  latter  the  ardent  aspirations  of  a man  craving  for 
harmony  with  the  universe;  a soul  thirsting  after  righteous- 
ness and  truth;  through  all  the  aberrations  of  a morbid 
imagination,  an  incessant  striving  for  individual  perfection. 
In  the  former  the  senile  efforts  of  an  age  which  has  become 
a caricature  of  itself  ; in  the  latter  the  juvenile  stammerings 
of  an  age  which  has  not  yet  become  master  of  itself.  The 
former  points  to  the  past;  the  latter  points  to  the  future. 
The  woes  and  joys  of  Ulrich  von  Lichtenstein  do  not  move 
the  hearts  of  modern  men;  they  have  become  matters  of 
mere  curiosity.  But  what  modern  man  would  not  feel  some- 
thing akin  to  his  own  being  in  the  Rousseau-like  rhapsody 
into  which  Suso's  soul  breaks  forth  as  he  sings  the  Sursum 
corda^  the  prelude  of  the  silent  mass?^® 

“I  set  before  my  inner  eyes  myself  in  all  my  being,  with  body, 
soul,  and  all  my  faculties,  and  placed  around  myself  all  creatures 
which  God  ever  created,  in  heaven,  on  earth,  and  in  all  the  elements, 
the  birds  of  the  air,  the  beasts  of  the  forests,  the  fishes  of  the  water, 
the  leaves  and  the  grass  of  the  land,  and  the  countless  sand  of  the 
sea,  and  thereto  all  the  little  dust-flakes  which  shine  in  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  and  all  the  little  water-drops  which  ever  fell  or  fall  from  dew, 
snow,  or  rain, — and  wished  that  each  of  all  these  things  had  a sweetly 
swelling  sound  of  harps,  well  prepared  from  the  innermost  essence  of 
my  heart,  so  that  there  would  rise  up  from  them  a new  jubilant  hymn 
of  praise  to  the  beloved,  gentle  God  from  evermore  to  evermore. 


Cf.  Preger  L c.  II,  350  f. 

Cf.  F.  Vetter,  Lehrhafte  Litteraiur  d.  14.  u.  15.  Jahrhdts^  DNL, 

XII,  2,  /.  210  f. 


TIIM  /USM  OF  rilM  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


And  then  the  longingarms  of  my  soul  spread  out  toward  the  countless 
beings  of  all  creation,  exhorting  and  inciting  them  even  as  a zealous 
precentor  incites  his  fellow-singers  to  sing  joyfully  and  to  offer  up 
their  hearts  to  God  : Sursum  cordal^ 

In  Tauler,  finally,  Mysticism  attained  to  its  sanest  and 
most  humane  form.  Tauler  seems  to  anticipate  the  great 
religious  painters  of  the  fifteenth  century,  a 
Stephen  Lochner,  a Hubert  or  Jan  van  Eyck,  a 
Rogier  van  der  Weyde  or  Memlinc.  He  is  an  enemy  of 
fanatic  asceticism;  he  believes  in  the  divineness  of  natural 
inclinations/®  “ Nature  is  in  itself  good  and  noble,  why 
should  I then  hew  away  aught  that  belongs  to  it?  For  I 
tell  thee  that  when  the  time  is  come  for  it  to  yield  fruit  in  a 
godly,  blessed,  devout  life,  then  it  will  be  seen  that  thou  hast 
spoiled  thy  nature.’'  He  does  not  share  the  monkish 
contempt  for  secular  pursuits  and  callings;  he  has  sym- 
pathy with  all  walks  of  human  life,  because  he  knows  it 
is  all  from  God.®®  “ One  can  spin,  another  can  make  shoes, 
and  some  have  great  aptness  for  all  sorts  of  outward  acts, 
so  that  they  can  earn  a great  deal,  while  others  are  alto- 
gether without  this  quickness.  These  are  all  gifts  proceed- 
ing from  the  spirit  of  God.  If  I were  not  a priest,  but  were 
living  as  a layman,  I should  take  it  as  a great  favour  that  I 
knew  how  to  make  shoes,  and  should  try  to  make  them 
better  than  any  one  else,  and  would  gladly  earn  my  bread 
by  the  labour  of  my  hands.”  He  contrasts  an  empty,  formal 
churchliness  with  the  fulness  and  sanctity  of  the  inner 
life  : ‘‘  Behold,  dear  friend,  if  thou  shouldst  spend  all  thy 
years  in  running  from  church  to  church,  thou  must  look  for 


Tauler’s  Sermons  trs\.  by  S.  Winkworth/.  249. — That  the  Historie 
des  erwirdigen  Docters  Johannis  Thauleri,  which  is  appended  to  all 
editions  of  Tauler’s  sermons  since  1498  and  also  to  this  English  trans- 
lation, is  a fiction  by  Tauler’s  contemporary,  the  Strassburg  “ Gottes- 
freund  ” Rulman  Merswin,  has  been  demonstrated  by  Denifle  in  the 
treatise  mentioned  above. 

*0  Ib.  3S4.  Ib.  364. 


1 14  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

and  receive  help  from  within,  or  thou  wilt  never  come  to 
any  good  ; however  thou  mayest  seek  and  inquire,  thou 
must  also  be  willing  to  be  tormented  without  succour  from 
the  outward  help  of  any  creature.  I tell  you,  children,  that 
the  very  holiest  man  I ever  saw  in  outward  conduct  and 
inward  life  had  never  heard  more  than  five  sermons  in  all 
his  days.  Let  the  common  people  run  about  and  hear 
all  they  can,  that  they  may  not  fall  into  despair  or  unbelief; 
but  know  that  all  who  would  be  God’s  inwardly  and  out- 
wardly turn  to  themselves  and  retire  within.”  He  contrasts 
the  prayer  of  the  soul  with  the  prayer  of  the  lips^'-" : Out- 

ward prayer  is  of  no  profit  except  in  so  far  as  it  stirs  the 
noble  flame  of  devotion  in  the  heart,  and  when  that  sweet 
incense  breaks  forth  and  rises  up,  then  it  matters  little 
whether  the  prayer  of  the  lips  be  uttered  or  not.”  He  is 
fond  of  enlivening  his  speech  by  pictures  of  outdoor  life,  as 
for  instance  when  he  compares  those  Christians  who  have 
not  yet  come  to  know  God  truly  with  untrained  dogs  who 
have  not  yet  acquired  the  true  scent  of  the  game^^:  ‘‘  They 
run  with  all  speed  after  the  good  dogs  of  nobler  breed. 
And  verily,  if  they  kept  on  running,  they  w^ould  with  them 
bring  down  the  stag.  But  no,  in  the  space  of  a short 
hour  or  so  they  look  about  them,  and  lose  sight  of  their 
companions,  or  they  stand  still  with  their  nose  in  the  earth 
and  let  the  others  get  ahead  of  them,  and  so  they  are  left 
behind.” 

But  his  whole  soul  flames  up  when  he  depicts  in 
heavenly  colours  the  beauty  of  the  true  spiritual  life.  So 
when  he  likens  it  to  a wilderness  in  which 

“there  spring  up  and  flourish  many  sweet  flowers  where  they  are 
not  trodden  under  foot  by  man.  In  this  wilderness  are  found  the 
lilies  of  chastity,  and  the  white  roses  of  innocence  ; and  therein  are 
found  too  the  red  roses  of  sacrifice,  when  flesh  and  blood  are  con- 
sumed in  the  struggle  with  sin,  and  the  man  is  ready,  if  need  be,  to 


Tauler’s  Sermons  217. 


23  Ib.  321  f. 


24  Ib,  198  fe 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES, 


II5 


suffer  martyrdom — the  which  is  not  easily  to  be  learned  in  the  world. 
In  this  wilderness,  too,  are  found  the  violets  of  humility,  and  many 
other  fair  flowers  and  wholesome  roots,  in  the  examples  of  holy  men 
of  God.  And  in  this  wilderness  shalt  thou  choose  for  thyself  a pleas- 
ant spot  wherein  to  dwell  ; that  is,  a holy  life  in  which  thou  mayest 
follow  the  example  of  God’s  saints  in  pureness  of  heart,  poverty  of 
spirit,  true  obedience,  and  all  other  virtues  ; so  that  it  may  be  said, 
as  it  is  in  the  Canticles  : * Many  flowers  have  appeared  in  our  land  ’ ; 
for  many  have  died  full  of  holiness  and  good  works.” 

So  when  he  depicts  God’s  sun  shining  upon  the  noble  vine 
of  the  Christian  heart  and  bringing  forth  all  its  precious 
fruit  so,  above  all,  when  he  describes  the  mystery  of 
mysteries,  the  union  of  God  and  the  soul.^® 

“ When,  through  all  manner  of  exercises,  the  outward  man  has  been 
converted  into  the  inward,  reasonable  man,  and  thus  the  two,  that  is 
to  say,  the  powers  of  the  senses  and  the  powers  of  the  reason,  are 
gathered  up  into  the  very  centre  of  the  man’s  being, — the  unseen  depths 
of  his  spirit,  wherein  lies  the  image  of  God, — and  thus  he  flings  him- 
self into  the  divine  abyss  in  which  he  dwelt  eternally  before  he  was 
created;  then, when  God  finds  the  man  thus  simply  and  nakedly  turned 
towards  him,  the  Godhead  bends  down  and  descends  into  the  depths 
of  the  pure,  waiting  soul,  and  transforms  the  created  soul,  drawing  it 
up  into  the  uncreated  essence,  so  that  the  spirit  becomes  one  with 
him.  Could  such  a man  behold  himself,  he  would  see  himself  so 
noble  that  he  would  fancy  himself  God,  and  see  himself  a thousand 
times  nobler  than  he  is  in  himself,  and  would  perceive  all  the 
thoughts  and  purposes,  words  and  works,  and  have  all  the  knowledge 
of  all  men  that  ever  were. 


Tauler’s  Sermons  251. 

Ib,  380. — InTauler  the  religious  oratory  of  Germany  before  Luther 
reached  its  culminating  point.  For  Geiler  of  Kaisersberg,  the  greatest 
preacher  of  the  fifteenth  century  (cf.  Cruel  1.  c,  p.  538  ff.),  far  from 
having  developed  the  pure  and  elevated  style  of  Tauler,  rather  repre- 
sents a return  to  the  drastic  realism  of  Berthold  of  Regensburg.  Nor 
can  it  be  said  that  the  religious  thought  of  the  fifteenth  century  added 
much  to  the  religious  thought  of  the  fourteenth.  Both  the  Theologia 
dcutsch  by  the  so-called  Frankfurter  and  the  Imitatio  Christi  by 
Thomas  of  Kempen  are  in  the  main  restatements  of  what  the  Mystics 
of  the  fourteenth  century  had  said  before. 


Il6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


In  reading  these  effusions,  is  it  not  as  though  we  were 
looking  at  one  of  those  marvellous  fifteenth-century  paint- 
ings in  Ghent  or  Bruges,  Cologne  .pr  Liibeck,  in  which  the 
most  simple  and  serene  worldliness,  the  intensest  passion, 
the  calmest  contemplation,  and  the  deepest  spirituality  have 
been  blended  into  so  chaste  and  harmonious  a whole  that 
all  merely  technical  criticism  is  silenced  before  them  ? 

The  same  vividness  of  representation,  the  same  indi- 
viduality and  truthfulness  of  feeling,  the  same  sympathy 
with  real  life  which  we  observed  to  be  cha- 
'Poetij,  racteristic  features  of  the  religious  prose  of  the 
centuries  preceding  the  birth  of  Protestantism,  we  observe, 
also,  in  the  three  most  important  branches  of  the  poetic 
literature  of  this  period,  i.e.,  in  the  Volkslied,  in  didactic 
and  satirical  narrative,  and  in  the  religious  drama. 

If  we  compare  the  German  Volkslied  of  the  fourteenth, 
fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries  with  the  chivalric  Minne- 

song,  we  cannot  help  being  struck  with  the 
The  Volkslied,  ^ j-  j j • 

extraordinary  advance  made  during  these  cen- 
turies in  directness,  force,  and  originality  of  poetic 
speech.  Not  in  the  laborious  rhymes  and  metres  of 
the  Mastersingers,^®  but  in  the  freedom  and  artlessness  of 
the  Volkslied,  do  we  find  the  most  characteristic  lyrical 
expression  of  the  heightening  and  widening  of  individual 
life  which  accompanied  the  growth  of  civic  independence 
during  these  centuries. 

No  doubt  there  is  a great  deal  of  truth  in  the  assertion 
which,  since  Herder’s  Von  deutscher  Art  und  Kunsty  has 
found  its  way  into  all  literary  histories,  that  the  Volks- 
lied is  property  and  product  of  a whole  nation.  A song 
once  started  is  taken  up  by  the  multitude^®;  it  is  sung  by 


An  exhaustive  bibliography  of  the  Volkslied  GdgPh.  II,  i,  752  ff, 
Cf.  Adam  Puschmann,  G)undlicher  Bericht  des  deutschen  Meisier- 
gesangSy  in  NddLw,  nr,  73.  GG.  §91. 

Cf.  Limburger  Chronik  ed.  A.  Wyss,/.  56.  65.  70.  74.  75.  passim. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


II7 


SO  many  different  persons,  in  so  many  different  ways,  on 
so  many  different  occasions,  that  in  the  course  of  time, 
through  additions,  omissions,  and  transformations,  it  loses 
its  original  character.  It  is  moulded,  as  it  were,  by  the 
stream  of  public  imagination,  as  the  pebbles  in  the  brook  are 
moulded  and  remoulded  by  the  current  of  the  water  which 
carries  them  along.  And  yet  it  is  equally  certain  that  each 
Volkslied,  in  its  original  form,  is  property  and  product  of 
an  individual  poet,  and  is  the  result  of  individual  and 
personal  experiences.  If  this  were  not  self-evident,  the 
German  folk-songs  of  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and  six- 
teenth centuries  would  give  ample  proof  of  it.  Although 
largely  anonymous,  these  songs  are  emphatically  personal. 
In  many  cases  the  very  headline  indicates  the  subjective 
character  of  the  poem  by  introducing  an  Ich^  Du,  Wir,  or 
Ihr:  “ Ich  hort  ein  sichellin  rauschen’' — Ich  weiss  ein 
fein  brauns  megdelin” — “ Ich  stund  an  einem  morgen” — 
“ Ich  ritt  mit  lust  durch  einen  wald  ” — Ei  du  feiner  reuter, 
edler  herre  mein  ” — ‘‘Was  wollen  wir  aber  haben  an  ? ” — 
“Wol  uf,  ir  lieben  gsellen  ! ” — etc.,  etc.  And  not  infre- 
quently the  author,  if  he  does  not  openly  give  his  name, 
hints  at  least  at  his  occupation  and  station  in  life.  This 
song,  we  hear,  for  instance,  was  sung  by  a student,  another 
by  a fisherman,  another  by  a pilgrim,  still  others  by  a rider 
good  at  Augsburg,  by  a poor  beggar,  by  a landsknecht  free, 
by  three  maidens  at  Vienna.  Or  we  hear  a frank  expres- 
sion of  the  author’s  satisfaction  with  himself  and  his  pro- 
duction^®: 

Wer  ist  der  uns  das  liedlein  sang 

Auss  freiem  mut.  ja  mut? 

Das  tet  eins  reichen  bauren  son, 

War  gar  ein  junges  blut. 

At  times  there  is  coupled  with  this  a reference  to  per- 
sonal experiences,  not  at  all  connected  with  the  subject  of 


Uhland,  Alte  hoch-  u,  niederd(’t{t<;rhp  ^^oJL^dieder  nr.  25. 


Il8  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  song,  but  which  the  singer  is  anxious  to  have  his  hear- 
ers know^^ : 

Der  uns  diss  neuwe  liedlein  sang 

Er  hats  gar  wol  gesungen, 

Er  ist  dreimal  in  Frankreich  gewest 

Und  allzeit  wider  kommen. 

And  now  the  subject-matter  of  these  songs  itself  ! There 
is  hardly  a side  of  human  character,  there  is  hardly  a phase 
of  human  life,  hardly  an  event  in  national  history,  which 
did  not  find  expression  in  them.  It  is  as  though  the 
circulation  of  the  national  body  had  been  quickened  and 
its  sensibilities  heightened,  as  though  people  were  seeing 
with  keener  eyes  and  listening  with  more  receptive  ears,  as 
though  they  were  gathering  the  thousandfold  impressions  of 
the  inner  and  outer  world:  of  stars  and  clouds,  of  trees  and 
brooks,  of  love  and  longing,  of  broken  faith  and  heroic 
deeds, — and  were  then  giving  shape  to  these  impressions  in 
melody  and  song.  An  unpretentious  and  succinct  form 
it  is.  There  is  nothing  in  the  Volkslied  of  the 
majestic  massiveness  of  the  Pindaric  ode,  nor  does  it 
have  the  finely  chiselled  elegance  of  the  troubadour  chanson. 
It  is  direct,  simple,  almost  laconic.  But  this  brevity  is 
fraught  with  a deep  sense  of  the  living  forces  in  nature  and 
man,  and  this  simplicity  and  directness  convey  impres- 
sions all  the  more  vivid  and  striking,  since  they  surprise  us 
in  the  same  way  as  the  naive  wisdom  of  a child  surprises  us. 
Sometimes  a single  touch,  such  as  Dort  oben  auf  dem 
berge  ’’  or  ‘‘  Zwischen  berg  und  tiefem  tal,'’  opens  the  view 
of  a whole  landscape,  with  rivers  flowing,  with  castles  on 
mountain-tops,  and  birds  sporting  in  the  air.  A single 
picture  reveals  sometimes  the  kinship  of  all  living  beings,  as 
for  instance  the  image  of  the  linden-tree  which  is  mourning 
with  the  deserted  maiden 


Uhland  /.  c.  nr.  gg  A ; cf.  nr.  114. 


3*  Ib.  nr.  27. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  II9 


Es  stetein  lind  in  disem  tal, 

Ach  Gott,  was  tut  sie  da? 

Sie  will  mir  helfen  trauren, 

Dasc  ich  kein  bulen  hab. 

A single  stanza  sometimes  gives  us  an  epitome  of  a whole 
human  life  with  all  its  joys,  sorrows,  and  catastrophes. 
What  can  be  more  impressive  than  the  abruptness  and  the 
seemingly  fragmentary  character  of  the  story,  told  in  two 
short  stanzas,  of  the  youth  who  loved  the  miller’s  daughter? 
She  lives  upon  yonder  hill  where  the  mill  is  turning;  and 
when  he  looks  up  to  it  from  the  valley,  then  his  senses  are 
bewildered,  and  it  seems  to  him  as  though  the  ceaseless 
turning  of  the  wheel  was  his  own  unending  love®^: 

Dort  hoch  auf  jenem  berge 
Da  get  ein  miilerad, 

Das  malet  nichts  denn  liebe 
Die  nacht  biss  an  den  tag. 

This  is  the  first  scene;  but  without  transition  there  follows 
another  picture.  The  mill  is  destroyed,  the  lovers  have 
been  parted,  and  the  poor  fellow  is  wandering  away  into 
loneliness  and  misery: 

Die  mule  ist  zerbrochen, 

Die  liebe  hat  ein  end, 

So  gsegen  dich  got,  mein  feines  lieb  ! 

Jez  far  ich  ins  ellend. 

How  artless  and  enchanting,  how  dreamy  and  yet  how 
distinctly  drawn,  is  the  scene  in  the  wheatfield,  where 
the  poet  overhears  amidst  the  sound  of  the  sickles  the 
voices  of  two  reaping  girls,  the  one  bewailing  the  loss  of 
her  sweetheart,  the  other  rejoicing  in  her  own  happiness  of 
newly  awakened  love®^: 


Uhland  /.  c.  nr.  33. 


lb.  nr.  34  A. 


120  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Ich  hort  ein  sichellin  rauschen, 

Wol  rauschen  durch  das  korn, 

Ich  hort  ein  feine  magt  klagen  : 

Sic  het  ir  lieb  verlorn. 

* La  rauschen,  lieb,  la  rauschen  I 
Ich  acht  nit  wie  es  ge  ; 

Ich  hab  mir  ein  bulen  erworben 
In  feiel  und  griinen  kle/ 

‘ Hast  du  ein  bulen  erworben 
In  feiel  und  griinen  kle, 

So  ste  ich  hie  alleine. 

Tut  meinem  herzen  we/ 

How  could  a tragic  story  be  told  more  simply  and  more 
thrillingly  than  in  the  tale  of  the  little  boy  who  has 
been  poisoned  by  his  stepmother  ? He  is  coming  back 
from  his  aunt's  house,  where  the  poison  has  been  given  to 
him;  and  the  whole  crime  is  revealed  to  us  in  seven  short 
stanzas,  consisting  of  questions  and  answers  directed  to  and 
given  by  the  boy,  and  ending  with  a terrible  curse  against 
the  cruel  mother 

Kind,  wo  bist  du  hin  gewesen? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

* Nach  meiner  mutter  schwester, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  ! * 

Kind,  was  gaben  sie  dir  zu  essen  ? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

‘ Eine  briie  mit  pfeffer, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  I ’ 

Kind,  was  gaben  sie  dir  zu  trinken  ? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

* Ein  glas  mit  rotem  weine, 

Wie  we  ist  mir/ 

Kind,  was  gaben  sie  den  hunden  ? 

Kind,  sage  dus  rtiir  ! 

* Eine  briie  mit  pfeffer, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  ! ’ 


Uhland  Ic,  nr.  120  ; cf.  Child,  Engl,  and  Scott.  Pop.  Ballads  I,  153  ff. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


121 


Kind,  was  machten  denn  die  hunde? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

‘ Sie  sturben  zur  selben  stunde, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  ! 

Kind,  was  soli  dein  vater  haben  ? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

* Einen  stul  in  dem  himmel, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  ! ’ 

Kind,  was  soil  deine  mutter  haben? 

Kind,  sage  dus  mir  ! 

* Einen  stul  in  der  holle, 

Wie  we  ist  mir  1 ’ 

What  a picture  of  honest  domesticity  and  burgher  re- 
spectability is  given  in  the  touching  story  of  the  German 
Hero  and  Leander,®®  the  “ two  royal  children  who  could 
not  come  together — the  water  was  far  too  wide/’  And  how 
rugged  and  whole-souled,  on  the  other  hand,  the  German 
yeomanry  appear  in  the  outcry  of  the  Dithmarse  freemen 
against  the  Duke  of  Holstein,  because  he  dared  to  build 
a fortified  castle  within  their  boundaries.  Their  leader 
calls  upon  them  to  tear  down  the  hateful  structure”: 

Tredet  herto,  gi  stolten  Ditmarschen  I 

Unsen  kummer  wille  wi  wreken. 

Wat  hendeken  gebuwet  haen  , 

Dat  kdnnen  wol  hendeken  tobreken. 

And  the  people  answer  with  a magnificent  affirmation  of  their 
readiness  to  undertake  all  things  or  to  sacrifice  all  things 
rather  than  to  lose  their  independence: 


Uhland  /.c.  nr,  gi. 

Liliencron,  Die  hist,  Volksl,  d.  Deutschen  I,  nr,  45  ; the  event 
belongs  to  the  year  1404.  Cf.  ib,  nr.  32-34  (Schlacht  bei  Sempach),  nr, 
35  {Schlacht  bei  Ndfels),  II  nr.  138-41  {Schlacht  bei  Granson),  nr. 
142-44  {Schlacht  bei  Murten),  nr.  147  ( Vom  ur sprung  der  eidgnoschaft), 
].  Bachtold,  Geschichte  d.  deutschen  Litt.  in  d.  Schweiz  p.  191  £f. 


122  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


De  Ditmarschen  repen  averlut : 

‘ Dat  lide  vvi  nu  und  nummermere, 

Wi  willen  darumme  wagen  hals  und  gut 
Und  willen  dat  gar  ummekeren. 

‘ Wi  willen  darumme  wagen  goet  und  bloet 
Und  willen  dar  alle  umme  sterven, 

Er  dat  der  Holsten  er  avermoet 
So  scholde  unse  schone  lant  vorderven.’ 

If,  then,  in  the  Volkslied  of  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and 
sixteenth  centuries  we  notice  a very  marked  advance  over 

Didactic  and  Minnesong  in  originality  of 

narrative  feeling  and  in  fulness  of  life,  we  observe  a simi- 

poetry,  ^9.1  progress  in  the  didactic  and  narrative  poetry 

of  the  time,  as  compared  with  the  average  court-epics  of 
the  preceding  epoch.  To  say  it  in  a word : here  lie 
the  roots  of  the  modern  realistic  novel.  Not  that  any 
sustained  and  successful  attempt  had  been  made  at  that 
time  to  portray  human  character  as  developed  under  the 
influence  of  everyday  occurrences  and  ordinary  experi- 
ences; for  Reinke  de  although  it  certainly  is  a most 

amusing  and  masterly  caricature  of  human  society,  still  re- 
tains too  much  of  the  weirdness  of  animal  nature  to  be 
termed  a portrayal  of  human  character  But  if  we  thus 
have  no  work  in  this  narrative  poetry,  which  in  its  totality 
could  be  called  a forerunner  of  the  modern  novel,  we  have, 
on  the  other  hand,  a superabundance  of  situations,  of  in- 
cidents, of  characters  scattered  through  this  literature, 
which  are  drawn  with  the  same  predilection  for  the  com- 
mon and  the  lowly,  the  same  antipathy  to  society  con- 
ventions, the  same  observation  of  detail,  the  same  attention 
to  the  apparently  insignificant,  which  mark  the  realistic 
tendencies  of  our  own  time. 

For  the  development  of  the  animal  epic  from  the  Ecbasis  Captivi 
and  Isengrimus  {supra,  p.  47  ff. ),  through  the  French  Roman  de  Renart 
and  Isengrines  N6t  by  Heinrich  der  Glichesaere  (c.  1180),  to  the  Roman 
van  den  Vos  Reinaei'de  by  the  Flemish  poet  Willem  (c.  1250),  and 
thence  to  the  Low  German  Reinke  (1498),  cf,  GdgPh.  II,  i,  262.462  f. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


123 


One  of  the  earliest  works  of  this  kind,  Der  Ffaffe  Aniis^ 
a collection  of  tales,  written  about  1230  by  an  Austrian  poet 
named  Strieker,  is  noteworthy  as  an  attempt  to  draw  the 
character  of  a clerical  swindler.  Of  the  manner  in  which  this 
design  is  carried  out  the  following  episode  in  the  impostor’s 
career  may  serve  as  an  illustration.^®  Conceal- 
ing his  clerical  character,  he  introduces  himself  to 
the  prior  of  a monastery  as  a simple,  unlearned 
business-man.  Appointed  manager  of  the  worldly  affairs  of 
the  monastery,  he  displays  remarkable  executive  capacity 
and  wins  the  favour  and  confidence  of  the  prior.  One  day  he 
announces  that  he  has  had  a vision  : an  angel  has  appeared 
before  him  and  summoned  him  to  conduct  mass.  He  is  in 
great  perplexity  about  it  ; for  how  could  he,  an  ignorant, 
uneducated  layman,  who  has  never  looked  into  a book,  read 
Latin  ? The  prior  encourages  him  to  try.  They  lock  them- 
selves up  in  the  church.  Amis  (the  name  of  the  impostor) 
is  put  into  priestly  garments,  he  steps  before  the  altar,  and 
lo  and  behold,  he  sings  the  mass  from  beginning  to  end 
most  fluently  and  impressively.  The  prior  is  amazed  and 
overjoyed  ; he  has  discovered  a saint ! He  spreads  his  fame 
abroad  ; from  all  parts  of  the  country  people  flock  to  the 
monastery,  bringing  large  offerings  of  silver  and  gold.  One 
fine  morning  the  saint  is  gone,  and  the  silver  and  gold  with 
him. 

About  the  same  time,  probably  towards  1250,  a Bavarian 
poet,  Wernher  the  Gardener,”  wrote  the  story  of  Meier 
Helmbrecht,  a young  farmer,  who,  despising  the  Meier  Helm- 
honest  modesty  of  his  father’s  home,  embraces  l^reclit. 
court  life,  associates  with  a robber  knight,  becomes  a high- 
wayman himself,  and  is  finally  hung  by  enraged  peasants. 
The  scene  where,  on  one  of  his  plundering  expeditions,  he 
revisits  his  home  for  the  first  time  since  he  left  it  against 


Cf.  c.  10,  Die  Messe;  Erzdhlungen  u.  Schwdnke  d»  MA,  ed.  Lam- 
bel  /.  67  ff. 


124  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


his  father’s  warning  and  wishes,  is  a masterpiece  of  minute 
and  terse  characterization^®: 

“ When  Helmbrecht  rode  up  to  his  father’s  house,  all  the  inmates 
ran  to  the  gate,  and  the  servants  called  out,  not  ‘ Welcome,  Helm- 
brecht ’ — that  they  did  not  dare  to  do — but : ‘ Our  young  lord,  be 
graciously  welcome.’  He  answered  in  the  Saxon  dialect : ‘ Suster- 
kindeken,  got  late  iuch  immer  saelic  sin.’  His  sister  ran  up  to  him 
and  embraced  him,  but  he  said  to  her,  ‘ Gratia  vester.’  Last  of  all 
came  the  old  folks  rather  slowly,  and  embraced  him  affectionately  ; 
but  he  said  to  his  father  in  French,  ‘ Deu  sal,’  and  to  his  mother  in 
Bohemian,  ‘ Dobra  ytra.’  Father  and  mother  looked  at  each  other, 
and  the  mother  said  to  her  husband  : ‘ My  lord,  our  senses  have  been 
bewildered,  it  is  not  our  child,  it  is  a Bohemian.’  The  father  cried 
out:  ‘It  is  a Frenchman,  it  is  not  my  son,  whom  I commended 
to  God.’  And  his  sister  Gotelint  said  : ‘ It  is  not  your  son,  to  me 
he  spoke  in  Latin,  it  must  be  a monk.’  And  the  servant  said  ; ‘ What 
I heard  of  him  made  me  think  he  came  from  Saxony  or  Brabant ; he 
said  Suster kindekin,  he  surely  is  a Saxon.’  Then  the  old  farmer  said 
with  direct  simplicity  : ‘ Is  it  you,  my  son,  Helmbrecht  ? Honour  your 
mother  and  me,  say  a word  in  German,  and  I myself  will  groom 
your  horse,  I,  and  not  my  servant.’  ‘ Ey  waz  sakent  ir,  gebure- 
kin?’  answered  the  son,  ‘Min  park  sol  dehein  geburik  man  zware 
nimmer  gripen  an.’  (‘Eh,  what  are  you  talking  of,  peasant?  My 
horse,  forsooth,  no  peasant  shall  dare  to  touch.’)  The  old  man  was 
grieved  and  frightened,  but  again  said : ‘ Are  you  Helmbrecht,  my 
son  ? Then  will  I roast  you  a chicken  this  very  night.  But  if  you 
are  a stranger,  a Bohemian,  or  a Wendish  man,  then  I have  no  shelter 
for  you.  If  you  are  a Saxon  or  a Brabanter  you  must  look  out  your- 
self for  a meal,  from  me  you  shall  have  nothing,  even  though  the 
night  lasted  a whole  year.  If  you  are  a lord  I have  no  beer  or  wine 
for  you,  go  and  find  it  with  the  lords.’  Meanwhile  it  had  grown 
iate,  and  the  boy  knew  there  was  no  shelter  for  him  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, so  at  last  he  said  : ‘ Yes,  I am  he,  I am  Helmbrecht ; once  I 
was  your  son  and  servant.’  ‘Then  tell  me  the  names  of  my  four 
oxen!’  ‘ Ouwer,  Raeme,  Erge,  Sunne  ; I have  often  cracked  my 
whip  over  them,  they  are  the  best  oxen  in  the  world  ; will  you  now 
receive  me  ? ’ And  the  father  cried  out : ‘ Door  and  gate,  chamber 
and  closet,  all  shall  be  open  to  you ! ’ ” 


^ Meier  Helmbrecht  v.  697  ff.  ; ih,  p.  163  ff. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES,  I2J 


Some  fifty  years  after  Wernher  had  drawn  this  tragic  picture 
from  Bavarian  peasant  life  a Bamberg  schoolmaster,  Hugo  of 
Trimberg,  composed  a vast  didactic  poem,  en- 
titled Z>er  Renner  (1300),  in  which  he  attempted  of  Tnm- 
to  give  a view  of  the  universe  as  it  presented 
itself  to  him  from  behind  the  windows  of  his  cloistered 
study.  And  here  again,  in  the  midst  of  long-winded  reflec- 
tions about  heaven  and  earth,  about  the  nature  of  beast  and 
man,  about  virtues  and  vices,  we  find  descriptions  of  actual 
life  so  forcible,  so  wholesome  and  unaffected,  that  we  may 
feel  tempted  to  apply  to  this  moralising  poet  what  the  Lint-- 
burg  Chronicle  under  the  year  1380  says  of  Master  Wilhelm 
of  Koln,  the  first  great  German  painter  “ He  knew  how 
to  paint  any  man  of  whatever  form  as  though  he  were 
alive/* 

The  following  parable*^  of  the  mule  who  tries  to  hide  his 
plebeian  origin  shows  the  democratic  spirit  which  pervades 
all  of  these  scenes.  When  the  lion  had  been  elected  king  of 
the  animals  he  commanded  all  the  beasts,  great  and  small, 
to  come  before  him  and  tell  him  their  names.  With  the 
rest  the  mule  came  to  the  gathering.  Said  the  king  : ‘‘  Tell 
me,  what  is  your  name  ?**  The  mule  answered  : Sire,  do 

you  know  the  horse  of  the  knight  who  resides  at  Bacharach 
and  is  called  Sir  Toldnir?  Believe  me,  that  same  horse  is 
my  uncle  ; that  same  horse  and  my  mother  fed  from 
the  same  manger  and  were  born  of  the  same  mother.’* 

The  king  waxed  angry  and  said  : As  yet,  it  is  not  known 

to  me  what  was  your  father’s  name.**  The  mule  answered  : 
Sire,  did  your  path  ever  lead  you  by  the  town  of  Bruns- 
wick ? Sire,  there  stands  a young  colt  well  kept  and 
groomed.  He  belongs  to  the  lord  of  the  land,  and  is  my 

uncle,  as  I have  heard  from  my  mother.’*  The  king  said  : 


Limburger  Chronik  ed.  Wyss/.  75. 

Cf.  F.  Vetter,  Lehrhafte  Litt,  d.  14.  u.  \^.Jhdts,  DNL.  XII,  i, 
258  ff. 


126  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

“ However  noble  your  uncles  are,  however  noble  your 
mother  may  be,  as  yet  I do  not  know  who  you  are  yourself, 
unless  you  tell  me  who  your  father  is/'  Then  the  mule 
was  silent.  But  the  fox,  who  stood  near  by,  said  : “ Sire,  do 
you  know  the  donkey  whom  the  baker  owns  at  Wesel,  out 
yonder  towards  the  field  ? Know  that  selfsame  donkey  is 
his  father.  Himself  he  is  called  mule,  and  he  is  four  times 
my  superior  in  strength  and  size.  But  I should  not  care  to 
exchange  my  state  with  his  patched-up  nobility.  His 
father,  of  whom  he  did  not  wish  to  speak,  is  far  more 
worthy  than  any  of  his  uncles.  For  faithfulness  and  sim- 
plicity dwell  in  him,  and  he  supports  himself  by  honest  toil 
and  to  no  one  does  he  any  harm.  Sire,  I speak  the  truth.*’ 
Said  the  king  : You  are  right.** 

About  thirty  years  later  than  this  poetic  encyclopaedia  of 
Hugo’s  is  the  Edelstein  of  the  Bernese  friar  Ulrich  Boner 

, ^ (1330),  a collection  of  parables  and  fables  in- 

TTlricli  Boner.  ^ , , . , . 

tended,  as  the  title  indicates,  to  serve  as  a 

talisman  against  the  evils  and  errors  of  the  world.  To  what 
lengths  of  realistic  frankness — not  to  say  coarseness — the 
fourteenth  century  would  go  in  its  protest  against  chivalric 
conventions  is  illustrated,  among  other  parables  of  this  col- 
lection, by  the  tale  of  the  fever  and  the  flea.'*’*  One  day 
the  fever  met  the  flea.  Both  had  had  a terrible  night,  and 
told  their  woes  to  each  other.  The  flea  said  : “I*m  nearly 
dead  of  hunger.  Last  night  I went  to  a convent  hoping  for 
a good  supper.  But  how  sadly  was  I mistaken.  I jumped 
upon  a high  bed,  beautifully  upholstered  and  richly  decked 
out.  It  was  that  of  the  abbess,  a very  fine  lady.  When  in 
the  evening  she  went  to  bed,  she  noticed  me  at  once, 
and  cried  : ‘ Irmentraut,  where  are  you 't  come  ! bring  the 
candle,  quick  ! * I skipped  off  before  the  girl  came,  and 
when  the  light  was  out  again  I went  back  to  the  same  place 
as  before.  Again  she  called,  again  I skipped  off.  And  so 


**  Vetter  /.  c,  p,  28  ff. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


127 


it  went  all  night  long,  and  now  you  see  I am  completely 
tired  out.  Would  to  God  that  I had  better  luck.’'  The 
fever  said  : ‘‘  Well,  don’t  think  that  I fared  much  better. 
I went  to  a working-woman  last  night.  When  she  noticed 
that  I was  shaking  her,  she  sat  down,  brewed  herself  a 
strong  broth  and  ate  it,  after  which  she  poured  a pailful  of 
water  down  her  throat.  Then  she  went  to  work  to  wash  a 
lot  of  linen  that  she  had  standing  in  a tub  ; and  she  kept 
it  up  nearly  all  night  long.  I never  spent  such  an  uncom- 
fortable night.  At  early  dawn  she  put  the  tub  on  her  head 
and  carried  it  off  to  a brook  to  rinse  the  washing.  Then 
I had  enough  of  her  and  ran  away.” — The  two  now  agree  to 
change  places  the  next  night.  The  fever  visits  the  abbess, 
the  flea  goes  to  the  washerwoman’s,  and  both  have  a very 
satisfactory  time  of  it.  For  the  abbess  has  herself  warmly 
covered  up  and  treated  to  all  sorts  of  delicacies,  which  of 
course  makes  the  fever  stay  with  her  for  weeks  ; and  the 
washerwoman  is  so  tired  with  her  day’s  work  that  she  im- 
mediately drops  off  and  sleeps  all  night  without  even  sus- 
pecting that  anything  is  wrong. 

In  order  to  convince  ourselves  that  the  tendency  to  realis- 
tic portrayal  of  life  which  is  manifested  in  these  specimens 
of  poetic  narrative  from  the  thirteenth  and  four-  Realism  in 
teenth  centuries  had  by  no  means  abated  by  the  fifteentt-cen- 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth,  we  need  only  to  it^Wstoric^^ 
glance  at  some  of  the  representative  works  of  significance, 
the  decades  immediately  preceding  the  religious  Reforma- 
tion, such  as  Sebastian  Brant’s  Narrenschiff  Reinke 

de  Vos  (1498),  Thomas  Murnev's  Narren^esc/iwo rung  (1512) 
and  Gauchmatt  (Fools’  Meadow,  1514),  or  the  popular 
prose  tale  of  Till  Eulenspiegel  (1515).'**  Here  we  find 

Cf.,  e.g.y  Narrensch.  {DNL,  XVI)  c.  62  “Von  nachts  hofieren  **  ; 
Reinke  ed.  K.  Schroder  I,  9 (the  grotesque  description  of  the  villagers); 
Narrenbeschw.  {DNL.  XVII,  i)  c.  80  “ Ein  lutenschlaher  im  herzen 
hon  ” ; Eulensp.  {DNL.  XXV)  c.  68  “ Wie  Ulenspiegel  einen  buren 
umb  ein  griin  leindisch  thuch  betrog.’* 


128  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  same  spirit  which  we  observed  in  Meier  Helmhrecht  or 
Der  Pfaffe  Amis^  the  same  spirit  which  was  to  find  its  con- 
summate artistic  expression  in  the  woodcuts  and  the 
sculptures  of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  works  like  Diirer’s 
Life  of  Mary,  Peter  Vischer’s  Tomb  of  St.  Sebald,  or  Hol- 
bein’s Dance  of  Death:  a spirit  of  naive  fearlessness  and 
truthfulness  ; a childlike  delight  in  direct  and  unconven- 
tional, and  even  coarse,  utterance  ; a loving  tenderness  for 
the  apparently  small  and  common;  and  a grim  hatred  of  all 
pretence  and  usurpation.  And  if  we  thus  are  led  to  consider 
the  historic  significance  of  this  outburst  of  realism  in  the 
narrative  poetry  of  the  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth 
centuries,  we  cannot  fail  to  see  in  it  a symptom  of  one  of  the 
most  important  movements  in  modern  history  ; we  cannot 
fail  to  see  in  it  a symptom  that  the  time  had  come  when  the 
peasant,  the  merchant,  the  artisan  were  ready  to  claim  their 
share  in  public  life  alongside  of  the  clergyman  and  the 
knight ; we  cannot  fail  to  see  in  it  a symptom  that  the  tide 
of  that  great  popular  upheaval  against  class  rule  which 
reached  its  first  high-water  mark  in  the  religious  Reforma- 
tion had  set  in.  When  the  second  climax  of  that  great 
upheaval,  the  French  Revolution,  was  approaching,  it  was 
heralded  in  France,  England,  and  Germany  by  a literary 
revolt.  Instead  of  the  gallant  shepherds  and  shepherd- 
esses, instead  of  the  polite  cavaliers  and  high-minded  kings, 
who  in  the  seventeenth  century  were  deemed  the  only  suit- 
able subjects  for  fiction  and  the  drama,  people  now  wanted 
to  see  men  and  women  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood  ; and 
Fielding,  Diderot,  and  Lessing  appeared  as  the  regenerators 
of  literature.  Just  so,  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  cen- 
turies, the  old  heroic  and  ideal  figures  of  Siegfried,  of  Par- 
zival,  of  Tristan,  representatives  of  a bygone  aristocratic 
past,  had  lost  their  force  ; what  people  wanted  to  see  in 
literature  was  their  own  life,  their  own  narrow,  crowded 
streets,  their  own  gabled  houses  and  steepled  cathedrals, 
their  own  sturdy  and  homely  faces. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES,  1 29 


It  is  under  this  same  aspect,  it  is  primarily  as  a social 
phenomenon,  that  the  development  of  the  religious  drama 
during  these  centuries  interests  us  here.  The  ^he  religious 
beginnings  of  the  religious  drama  go  back  to  drama.  Its 
the  early  Middle  Ages.  They  were  connected 
with  the  chief  festivals  of  the  church,  and  had  their  basis 
in  the  dramatic  elements  of  the  church  liturgy.  Out  of  the 
Christmas  ritual,  the  principal  subjects  of  which  were  the 
events  centring  around  the  birth  of  the  Saviour,  there  de- 
veloped simple  dramatic  representations  of  such  scenes  as 
the  Annunciation,  the  Song  of  the  Angels,  the  Adoration  of 
the  Shepherds  and  the  Magi,  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  the 
Slaughter  of  the  Innocents/^  The  recital  on  Good  Friday  of 
the  biblical  account  of  Christ’s  passion  and  death  gradually 
led  to  an  impersonation  of  the  principal  characters  that 
appear  in  it.  The  introduction  into  the  Easter  mass  of 
brief  choral  anthems,  suggesting  the  dialogue  between  the 
angel  and  the  three  Marys  at  the  grave,  naturally  gave  rise 
to  a similar  representation  of  the  whole  group  of  events 
connected  with  the  Resurrection.^^  And  to  these  three 
foremost  plays  on  Christmas,  Good  Friday,  and  Easter, 
other  performances  on  other  festivals  in  course  of  time 
were  added. 

During  the  height  of  chivalric  culture  in  the  twelfth  and 

thirteenth  centuries  these  plays  seem  to  have  shared  the 

ideal  and  solemn  character  which  marked  this  i 

Its  cnaracter 

whole  period.  They  were  written  in  Latin;  in  the  twelfth 
they  were  performed  within  the  churches  and 
by  members  of  the  clergy;  they  were  operatic  rather  than 
dramatic;  they  were  confined  to  the  sphere  of  thought  and 


Cf.,  e.g.y  the  so-called  07'do  Rachelis;  K.  Weinhold,  Weihnachts- 
spieleu.  -Lieder  p.  62  ff. — Bibliography  of  the  religious  drama  GdgPh. 
II,  I,  397.  A comprehensive  account  in  W.  Creizenach,  Gesch,  d, 
neuern  Dramas  I.  Ten  Brink,  Hist,  of  Engl,  Lit.  II,  i,  234  ff. 

Cf.  K.  Lange,  Die  lat,  Osterfeiern  p,  22  ff. 


130  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

fancy  which  had  received  the  sanction  of  the  temporal  and 
spiritual  authorities. 

From  a contemporary  and  ardent  admirer  of  emperor 
Frederick  Barbarossa  we  have  a Flay  of  Antichrist  (c. 
ii8o),*®  which  in  a most  emphatic  manner  reveals  the 
elevated  and  sombre  tone  of  the  early  sacred  drama.  Two 
allegoric  personages,  Paganism  and  the  Syna- 
Antichri^L^^  gogue,  open  this  play.  Paganism  extols  the  poly» 
theistic  view,  which  accords  due  reverence  to  all 
heavenly  powers,  while  the  Synagogue  glorifies  the  one  in- 
visible God,  and  inveighs  against  the  belief  in  the  divinity 
of  Christ.  Then,  as  a third,  the  Church  comes  forward,  in 
regal  crown  and  armour,  on  her  right  hand  Mercy  with  the 
olive  branch,  on  her  left  Justice  with  balance  and  sword. 
Against  those  who  are  of  another  faith  than  hers  she  pro- 
nounces eternal  damnation.  She  is  followed  on  the  right 
by  the  pope  and  clergy,  on  the  left  by  the  emperor  and  his 
hosts.  The  kings  of  the  earth  bring  up  the  rear.  The 
emperor  now  demands  the  submission  of  the  kings.  All 
accord  it,  except  the  king  of  France,  who,  however,  is  at 
last  forced  into  obedience.  Then  the  emperor  starts  for  the 
Holy  Land  to  deliver  it  from  the  hands  of  the  pagans.  He 
triumphs  over  the  enemies  of  Christendom,  and  thereupon 
lays  down  his  crown  and  sceptre  in  the  house  of  the  Lord. 
But  now  the  hypocrites  conspire  against  the  Church.  In 
their  midst  is  Antichrist,  wearing  a coat  of  mail  beneath 
his  wings,  and  leading  on  his  right  hand  Hypocrisy,  on  his 
left  Heresy.  In  the  very  temple  of  Jerusalem  his  followers 
erect  his  throne;  and  the  Church,  conquered  and  humili- 
ated, is  driven  to  the  Papal  See.  Antichrist  sends  ambas- 
sadors to  demand  the  homage  of  the  world,  and  all  kings 


Edited  by  Froning,  Das  Drama  des  MA,  {DNL.  XIV)  I,  199  ff. 
Of  a similarly  elevated  character  are  the  two  so-called  Benediktbeuren 
Plays  (Froning  III,  875  ff.  I,  278  ff.),  the  former  a Christmas,  the 
latter  a Passion  play  ; and  the  Trier  Easter  play  (id.  I,  46  ff.). 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  I3I 

kneel  before  him,  except  the  German  emperor.  But  al- 
though the  emperor  conquers  him  in  a pitched  battle,  Anti- 
christ manages  at  last,  through  false  miracles,  to  gain  even 
the  support  of  the  Germans;  he  conquers  Babylon  and  is 
received  by  the  Jews  as  their  Messiah;  his  earthly  kingdom 
extends  farther  than  any  other  realm.  But  now  the  prophets 
Elijah  and  Enoch  appear  and  preach  the  glory  of  the 
Saviour.  A new  struggle  between  light  and  darkness  begins, 
but  immediately  comes  to  an  abrupt  end.  A sound  is 
heard  from  above.  Antichrist  falls,  his  followers  flee  away 
in  haste  and  consternation,  while  the  Church  sings  a halle- 
lujah and  announces  that  the  Lord  is  coming  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment over  the  world. 

If  we  now  turn  from  this  essentially  allegorical  drama, 
and,  passing  over  nearly  three  hundred  years,  on  an  Easter 
Sunday  in  the  second  half  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury,  mingle  with  the  populace  of  a free  German  character  of 
town,  assembled  in  the  market-place  to  witness  l^tej  re- 

^ li^ioiis  dr£iiu8^i 

the  representation  of  the  Redeemer’s  resurrec-  Wiener  Oster- 
tion,  we  shall  see  a very  different  spectacle."*^ 

The  first  person  that  appears  on  the  stage — after  the  resur- 
rection itself  with  its  usual  sequence,  Christ’s  descent  into 
hell  and  the  delivery  of  the  Fathers,  has  passed  before  our 
eyes — is  a quack  doctor  and  vender  of  medicines.  He  has 
just  come  from  Paris,  where  he  has  bought  a great  supply 
of  salves  and  tonics  and  domestic  wares,  the  usefulness  of 
which  he  is  not  slow  to  impress  upon  his  audience.  But 
his  salesman  has  run  away,  and  he  wants  another.  Now 
a second  personage  of  an  equally  doubtful  character,  by  the 
name  of  Rubin,  presents  himself.  Though  still  a young 
fellow,  he  is  an  expert  in  all  sorts  of  tricks.  He  is  a pick- 
pocket, a gambler,  a counterfeiter,  and  he  has  always 
managed  to  defy  the  courts,  except  in  Bavaria,  where  they 
caught  him  once  and  branded  his  cheeks.  To  the  doctor 


Cf.  Hoffmann,  Fundgruben  II,  313  ff. 


132  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  7^C/RE. 


he  seems  the  right  man,  and  he  is  engaged  accordingly,  the 
salary  being  fixed  at  a pound  of  mushrooms  and  a soft 
cheese.  And  since  the  streets  are  now  beginning  to  be 
filled  with  a concourse  of  people,  the  two  proceed  at  once 
to  set  up  their  booth.  At  this  moment  there  arises  from 
amidst  the  crowd  a wailing  song, — the  three  Marys  are 
lamenting  the  death  of  Christ : 

Wir  haben  verlorn  Jesum  Christ, 

Der  aller  werlde  ein  troster  ist, 

Marien  son  den  reinen; 

Darum  miisse  wir  beweinen 
Swerlichen  seinen  tot: 

Wenn  er  half  uns  aus  grosser  not— 

which  is  followed  by  the  exhortation  to  go  to  his  grave  and 
anoint  his  body  with  ointment.  The  quack  sees  his  chance 
for  a good  bargain;  he  sends  Rubin  to  coax  the  women  to 
his  booth,  and  now  there  ensues  a regular  country  fair 
scene.  The  three  Marys  evidently  do  not  know  the  value 
of  money;  they  offer  to  pay  all  they  have,  three  gold 
florins;  and  the  merchant  is  so  overcome  by  this  unexpected 
readiness  of  his  customers  that  he  in  turn  gives  them  better 
stuff  than  he  is  accustomed  to  do.  But  here  his  wife,  who, 
it  seems,  has  a better  business  head,  intervenes.  She  has 
made  the  ointment  herself,  she  knows  it  ought  to  sell  for  much 
more,  she  bids  the  women  not  to  touch  it,  and  when  her  hus- 
band insists  on  keeping  his  agreement,  she  abuses  him  as  a 
drunkard  and  spendthrift, — an  attack  which  he  answers  by 
beating  and  kicking  her.  Finally  they  pack  all  their  things 
together  and  move  off,  and  again  the  farcical  suddenly 
gives  way  to  the  pathetic.  The  three  women  arrive  at  the 
grave;  but  the  stone  has  been  rolled  away,  and  the  angel 
accosts  them  singing: 

Er  ist  nicht  hie  den  ir  sucht; 

Sunder  get,  ob  irs  gerucht, 

Und  saget  seinen  jungern 
Und  Petro  besunder 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 


133 


Dass  er  ist  erstanden 
Und  gein  Galilea  gegangen. 

The  scene  closes  with  a chant  of  the  three  Marys,  which  is 
partly  an  expression  of  grief  and  sorrow  that  even  the  body 
of  the  Saviour  should  have  been  taken  away  from  them: — 

Owe  der  mere  ! 

Owe  der  jemmerlichen  klage  ! 

Das  grap  ist  lere  : 

Owe  meiner  tage  ! — 

and  partly  an  assertion  of  hope  and  confidence  in  the  sup- 
port of  their  Redeemer: 

Jesu,  du  bist  der  milde  trost 
Der  uns  von  sunden  hat  erlost. 

Von  sunden  und  von  sorgen 
Den  abent  und  den  morgen, 

Er  hat  dem  teufel  angesiget, 

Der  noch  vil  feste  gebunden  liget* 

Er  hat  vil  manche  sele  erlost : 

O Jesu,  du  bist  der  werlde  trost. 

The  whole  religious  drama  of  the  fifteenth  century  is 
crowded  with  scenes  similar  to  these.  Most  pathetic  and 
soul-stirring  are  the  lamentations  of  Mary  before 
the  cross,  as  they  are  depicted,  for  instance,  in  ^^sfelder  ^ 
the  Alsfeld  Passion  play  of  the  end  of  the  cen-  • 

tury.**^  She  appeals  to  all  Christendom,  to  the  earth,  to  the 
very  stones  for  sympathy;  she  makes  John  repeat  again  and 
again  the  cruel  tale  of  all  the  tortures  and  wounds  inflicted 
upon  her  son;  she  wails  at  seeing  him  hanging  yonder  so 
naked  and  bare,  his  cheeks  so  pallid  and  hollow;  she  turns 
to  the  Jews  and  beseeches  them  to  take  her  own  life  instead 
of  his: — all  this  reveals  the  deepest  feelings  of  a mother’s 
heart.  Yet  in  the  same  play  there  are  scenes  of  such  caustic 


Froning  III,  779  ff.  A large  part  of  these  lamentations  is  taken 
verbatim  from  the  so-called  Trierer  Marienkla^e  (Wackernagel,  Das 
deutsche  Kirchenlied  II,  347).  The  Judas-scene  ib.  681  ff. 


134  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


sarcasm  and  such  grotesque  caricature  that  we  might  fancy 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  a farcical  satire  rather  than  a 
religious  tragedy.  This,  for  instance,  is  the  way  J udas  haggles 
with  the  Jews  about  the  traditional  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 
In  the  first  place  he  demands  thirty  shillings;  subsequently 
he  comes  down  to  thirty  pennies  instead.  But  he  has  them 
counted  out  to  him  one  by  one,  and  he  is  as  scrupulous  in 
the  examination  of  the  different  coins  as  a mediaeval  trades- 
man dealing  with  people  from  a neighbouring  town. 

Judas  : This  penny  is  red. 

Caiphas  : Tis  good  enough  to  buy  meat  and  bread. 

Judas  : This  one  is  bad. 

Caiphas  : Judas,  hear  what  a good  ring  it  has. 

Judas  : This  one  is  broken. 

Caiphas  : Well,  take  another  and  stop  grumbling. 

Judas  : This  one  has  a hole  in  it. 

Caiphas  : Take  another,  then  ; here  is  a good  one. 

Judas  : This  one  has  a false  stamp. 

Caiphas  : If  you  don’t  want  it,  Til  give  you  another. 

Judas  : This  one  is  black. 

Caiphas  : Look  at  this  one,  and  be  done  with  it. 

Judas  : This  crack  is  altogether  too  large. 

Caiphas  : Judas,  if  you’ll  hang  yourself,  here’s  a rope. 

Judas  : This  one  is  leaden. 

Caiphas  : How  long  are  you  going  to  make  fun  of  us? 

In  a Hessian  Christmas  play,  also  of  the  end  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,*®  Joseph  and  Mary  appear  as  a poor  home- 
„ . , less  couple.  They  wander  from  house  to  house, 
Weihnaolits-  nobody  is  willing  to  take  them  in,  and  even  in 
spiel.  vagrants'  home,  where  they  at  last  find 

shelter,  poor  Joseph  must  submit  to  the  most  humiliating 
insults  heaped  upon  him  by  two  servant-girls.  When  the 
child  is  born,  the  most  necessary  provisions  are  lacking;  no 
food,  no  bedding  for  the  mother,  not  even  swaddling-clothes 
for  the  infant.  But  Mary  comforts  herself:  naked  are  we 


Froning  III,  902  ff. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES, 


135 


born,  naked  are  we  to  go  hence.  And  old  Joseph  makes  a 
most  devoted  father.  He  succeeds  in  hunting  up  a cradle 
for  the  baby,  he  has  a pair  of  old  trousers  which  will  do 
very  well  for  swaddling-clothes;  and  how  happy  he  sits 
there  rocking  the  little  one  to  sleep  and  singing  to  him  a 
German  lullaby  ! 

But  if  we  wish  to  see  the  religious  drama  of  the  fifteenth 
century  at  its  best,  if  we  wish  to  know  what  a Redentiner 
wealth  of  earnestness  and  humour,  of  spiritual  Osterspiel. 
fervour  and  sturdy  joy  of  the  world  it  contained,  if 
we  would  fully  realize  the  life-giving  influence  of  city 
freedom  upon  the  popular  conceptions  of  the  old  sacred 
lore,  we  must  turn  to  an  Easter  play  written  at  Redentin 
near  Wismar  in  1464.®®  Here  we  have  a worthy  counterpart 
to  the  best  creations  of  sixteenth-century  art,  to  works  like 
Diirer’s  Passion  (15 ii)  or  Briiggemann’s  noble  altar-piece 
in  Schleswig  cathedral  (1515).  Here  more  deeply  than 
in  any  other  of  these  plays  are  we  made  to  feel  that  won- 
derful blending  of  the  secular  and  the  religious,  the  ephem- 
eral and  the  eternal,  which  gives  to  the  city  life  of  the  end 
of  the  Middle  Ages  its  unique  and  ineffaceable  charm. 
Here  we  find  ourselves  transported  into  a time  when  sacred 
history  had  acquired  all  the  actuality  of  local  happenings, 
when  every  crucifix  on  the  roadside  was  a Golgotha,  every 
cathedral  a Jerusalem,  every  baptismal  font  a Jordan  in 
which  at  any  time  the  figure  of  the  Saviour  might  be  seen, 
bowing  down  before  the  Baptist,  while  from  above  would  be 
heard  the  word:  This  is  my  beloved  son,  in  whom  I am 

well  pleased.*’ 

'Ihe  play  begins  with  the  resurrection  of  Christ,  but  the 
resurrection  takes  place,  not  in  Jerusalem,  but  in  the  good 
old  town  of  Wismar  itself.  Pilate,  who  appears  as  the  type 
of  a stately,  somewhat  phlegmatic  burgomaster,  hears  a 
rumour  that  Christ's  followers  intend  to  steal  his  body;  and 


Froning  I,  107  ff. 


136  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


therefore  details  four  knights  to  watch  the  grave,  one  to  the 
north,  one  to  the  south,  one  to  the  east,  and  one  to  the 
west.  The  knights  behave  in  a manner  altogether  suitable 
to  representatives  of  that  vagrant  soldiery  which  in  those 
times  of  club-law  were  an  object  of  both  terror  and  ridicule 
to  the  peaceful  citizen.  They  brag  about  their  prowess, 
clatter  with  their  swords,  threaten  to  smash  any  one  who 
shall  dare  to  come  near  them;  and  then  go  quietly  to 
sleep,  having  first  made  an  arrangement  with  the  night- 
watchman,  who  is  stationed  on  the  steeple  of  the  cathedral, 
to  keep  on  the  lookout  in  their  place.  The  watchman  sees 
a vessel  approaching  on  the  Baltic  Sea.  He  tries  to  wake 
the  knights,  but  in  vain.  He  hears  the  dogs  barking,  and 
again  vainly  tries  to  arouse  the  sleepers.  He  calls  out  the 
midnight  hour.  And  now  a chorus  of  angels  is  heard  on 
high,  the  earth  is  shaken,  Jesus  arises  and  sings: 

Nu  synt  alle  dynke  vullenbracht 

De  dar  vor  in  der  ewicheit  weren  bedacht, 

Dat  ik  des  bitteren  dodes  scholde  sterven, 

Unt  deme  mynschen  gnade  wedder  vorwerven. 

From  these  scenes,  in  which  the  burlesque  and  the  serious 
are  so  quaintly  mingled,  we  now  pass  on  to  events  of  truly 
sublime  simplicity  and  serene  grandeur.  Jesus  descends 
into  hell  to  rescue  the  souls  of  the  Fathers.  His  approach 
is  foreshadowed  in  the  joyous  expectancy  of  the  waiting 
souls.  They  see  a wondrous  light  spreading  overhead. 
Abel  is  the  first  to  interpret  this  as  a sign  that  the  time  of 
their  redemption  is  nigh;  but  the  others  at  once  join  with 
him.  Adam  rejoices  in  the  hope  of  regaining  paradise. 
Isaiah  is  sure  that  this  is  the  light  of  God;  for  is  it  not  an 
evident  fulfilment  of  what  is  written  in  his  own  book  of 
prophecy  (he  quotes  himself  in  Latin):  ‘‘ The  people  that 
walked  in  darkness  have  seen  a great  light  ? And  Seth 
recalls  the  twig  which  five  thousand  six  hundred  years  ago 
he  planted  at  God’s  behest  that  it  might  grow  into  the  tree 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  137 


of  salvation  (the  cross).  Now  John  the  Baptist  appears  as 
forerunner  of  the  Saviour,  and  announces  his  coming.  In 
vain  do  Lucifer  and  Satan  summon  their  hosts,  in  vain  do 
they  lock  the  gates  of  hell.  Surrounded  by  the  archangels, 
Christ  advances.  With  a few  majestic  words  he  silences 
Satan,  the  ^‘accursed  serpent*';  with  a mere  sign  of  his 
hand  he  bursts  the  gates;  Lucifer  he  commands  to  be 
bound  until  the  day  of  judgment.  And  now  the  souls 
stream  forward,  exulting,  jubilating,  stammering  with  joy 
and  gratitude;  and  Jesus  takes  them  by  the  hand  and 
greets  them,  and  then  commits  them  to  the  care  of  Michael, 
the  archangel,  that  he  may  lead  them  upward  into  paradise. 

At  the  end  of  the  play  we  return  once  more  to  the  sphere 
of  the  burlesque,  to  a satire  upon  social  conditions  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Through  the  rescue  of  the  souls  of 
the  Fathers,  hell  has  become  desolate;  Lucifer,  therefore, 
chained  as  he  is,  sends  his  servants  out  to  catch  new  souls. 
But  the  devils  return  empty-handed  and  discouraged: 
through  Christ’s  death  and  resurrection,  they  say,  the  world 
has  become  so  good  that  very  little  chance  is  left  for  hell. 
Lucifer,  however,  is  not  discouraged.  He  has  heard  that  a 
great  plague  is  raging  just  now  in  the  city  of  Liibeck,  and 
he  sends  his  messengers  out  for  a second  time,  to  try  their 
fortunes  in  the  Hanse  town.  And  this  time  they  come 
back  laden  with  souls  of  sinners,  sinners  of  every  kind  and 
description.  There  is  the  baker,  who  deceived  his  cus- 
tomers by  using  too  much  yeast  in  his  bread  and  too  little 
flour.  There  is  the  shoemaker,  who  sold  sheepskin  for 
Cordovan  leather.  There  is  the  tailor,  who  stole  half  of 
his  customers’  cloth.  There  is  the  inn-keeper,  who  adul- 
terated his  beer  and  served  it  with  too  much  foam  in  the 
pot.  There  is  the  butcher,  who  stuffed  his  sausages  with 
all  sorts  of  refuse.  There  is  the  grocer,  who  used  false 
measure  and  weight.  There  is  even  the  priest,  who  so 
often  overslept  the  mass  and  so  often  celebrated  the  even- 
ing service  in  the  tavern.  In  short, — this  is  the  moral 


138  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

pointed  out  by  the  concluding  chorus, — Lucifer  is  right: 
the  power  of  evil  has  not  yet  been  broken.  Sin  is  still 
mighty  in  the  land,  and  only  by  cleaving  to  God  and  his 
word  can  we  be  saved.  And  only  then  can  we  truly  sing 
with  the  angels:  ^ Christ  is  risen.* 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  these  examples.  It  might 
be  shown  how  the  same  realistic  tendency,  the  same  blend- 
Other  plays  religious  and  the  secular  which  is  re- 

TheFast-  vealed  in  these  Christmas,  Passion,  and  Easter 
nachtspiel.  plays,  also  manifested  itself  in  other  dramatic 
representations  of  biblical  or  legendary  themes,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  plays  of  The  Wise  and  the  Foolish  Virgins 
(1322), of  Theophilus  (fifteenth  century),®^  of  Frau  Jutta 
(1480).^*  It  might  be  shown  how  in  the  Shrovetide  plays^^ 
of  the  fifteenth  century  the  secular,  detached  from  its  con- 
nection with  the  religious,  ran  riot  and  degenerated  into 
uncouth  vulgarity.  But  enough  has  been  said  to  prove  that 
the  drama  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  no  less 
than  the  Mystic  prose,  the  Volkslied,  and  the  narrative  and 
didactic  poetry  of  the  same  period,  was  a result  of  that 
wonderful  awakening  of  individual  thought  and  feeling 
which  politically  led  to  the  classic  epoch  of  German  city 
freedom.  At  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  all 
these  forces  worked  together  to  bring  about  those  two  great 
movements  which  mark  the  final  breaking  away  from  medi- 
aeval authority:  Humanism  and  the  religious  Reformation. 


Das  spiel  von  den  zehen  Jungfrauen  ed.  M.  Rieger,  Germania  X, 

311  ff. 

Ed.  Ettmuller  1849  5 Hoffmann  1853.  54* 

A.  V.  Keller,  Fastnachtspiele  nr.  in. 

Five  of  the  better  Shrovetide  plays  {Der  Fastnackt  und der  Fasten 
Recht,  Von  Papst  Kardinal  und  Bischofen^  Des  Tiirken  Fastnachtspiele 
by  Hans  Rosenpliit  ; Fastnachtspiel  von  einem  Bauerngericht  by  Hans 
Folz  ; and  the  anonymous  Spiel  von  einem  Kaiser  und  einem  Abt)  re- 
printed from  Keller  by  Froning,  /.  c.  III,  963  ff.  Cf.  GG,  § 93.  Al- 
win  Schultz,  Deutsches  Leben  im  14.  u,  15.  Jhdt,  II,  398  ff. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION. 

(The  Sixteenth  Century.) 

The  history  of  the  German  people  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury presents  a strange  and  tragic  spectacle.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  period  Germany,  of  all  European  Contrast  be- 
nations,  shows  the  highest  intellectual  promise,  tween  begin- 
The  long  pent-up  spirit  of  revolt  against  medi-  ^tbe^Eefor- 
aeval  class  rule  and  scholasticism  is  breaking  mation, 
forth  with  elemental  power.  Great  men  are  standing  up 
for  a great  cause.  Copernicus  is  pointing  toward  an  en- 
tirely new  conception  of  the  physical  universe.  Erasmus 
and  Hutten,  Holbein  and  Diirer,  Melanchthon  and  Luther, 
each  in  his  own  sphere,  are  preparing  the  way  for  a new 
and  higher  form  of  national  life.  It  seems  as  though  a 
strong  and  free  German  state,  a golden  age  of  German  art 
and  literature,  were  near  at  hand.  At  the  end  of  the  cen- 
tury all  these  hopes  have  been  crushed.  While  England  is 
entering  the  Elizabethan  era,  while  the  Dutch  are  fighting 
the  most  glorious  struggle  of  modern  times  for  free  thought 
and  free  government,  Germany,  the  motherland  of  religious 
liberty,  is  hopelessly  lost  in  the  conflict  between  Jesuit  and 
Protestant  fanaticism,  and  is  gradually  drifting  toward  the 
abyss  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War. 

How  different  would  the  course  of  events  have  been  if 
there  had  existed  at  that  time  a broad  national  spirit,  a 
strong  public  opinion,  in  Germany!  When,  in  1521,  Luther 

139 


140  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

at  the  diet  of  Worms,  face  to  face  with  emperor,  princes, 
and  cardinals,  upheld  the  freedom  of  conscience,  the  heart 
of  Germany  was  with  him.  Never  before  in  German  his- 
tory had  there  arisen  a national  hero  like  him;  never  be- 
fore had  there  been  a moment  fraught  with  such  weighty 
possibilities.  On  Luther’s  side  there  were  the  most  en- 
lightened of  the  princes  and  nearly  all  of  the  gentry.  The 
cities  greeted  his  teaching  as  a weapon  against  hierarchi- 
cal aggression;  the  peasantry  hailed  it  as  a promise  of  social 
betterment.  What  might  not  have  been  accomplished  if  all 
the  friends  of  reform  had  united,  if  all  party  desires  and 
class  aspirations  had  been  merged  in  one  grand  popular 
uprising  ? 

No  great  opportunity  was  ever  more  irretrievably  lost. 
Instead  of  a nation  rallying  to  establish  its  independence, 
we  see  separate  classes  and  sects,  regardless  of  the  welfare 
of  the  whole,  attempting  to  secure  their  own  individual 
liberties.  Instead  of  a great  idea  sweeping  everything 
before  it,  we  see  the  inevitable  defeat  of  small  conspira- 
cies. Instead  of  a continuous  growth  and  gradual  expan- 
sion of  the  Protestant  cause,  we  see  it,  after  a first  glorious 
effort,  step  by  step  retreating,  and  at  last  confining  itself 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  an  orthodoxy  not  a whit  more 
rational  and  far  less  imposing  than  the  old  system  of  papal 
supremacy. 

The  religious  Reformation  had  been  born  out  of  the 
bitter  agonies  of  an  ardent  soul  seeking  after  truth;  it  was 
brought  to  a close  by  a compromise  between  opposing 
political  powers.  It  had  bidden  fair  to  inaugurate  a new 
era  of  national  unification  and  greatness;  its  real  effect  was 
a further  step  in  the  dismemberment  and  weakening  of  the 
empire.  Its  first  outcry  had  been  Luther’s:  Ich  kann  nicht 

anders,  Gott  helfe  mir,  amen”;  its  final  word  was  the  abso- 
lutist doctrine:  cujus  regie,  eius  religion  Was  there  ever 

a noble  cause  more  shamefully  disfigured  and  perverted  ? 

In  order  to  understand  fully  the  effect  of  this  deplorable 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  I4I 

course  of  events  upon  the  literature  of  the  period,  we  must 
remember  that  the  two  preceding  centuries  had  been  marked 
by  a steady  growth  of  realistic  tendencies.  More  democra 
and  more  had  literature  come  to  be  an  expres-  tic  movement 
sion  of  the  needs  of  the  day,  more  and  more  had  *1^®  ^egin- 

it  imbued  itself  with  democratic  ideas,  more  sixteenth  cen- 
and  more  had  it  become  the  prophecy  of  a 
great  intellectual  and  social  revolution.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  it  seemed  as  if  the  hour  of  fulfil- 
ment had  come,  as  if  the  vital  energy  of  the  people  had 
been  nourished  long  enough  to  give  birth  to  a new  ideal- 
ism, inspired  with  a larger  conception  of  humanity,  and 
therefore  fuller  of  life  and  higher-reaching  than  that  of 
any  previous  age. 

What  is  it  that  gives  such  an  imperishably  youthful  charm 
to  the  German  Humanistic  movement  of  the  first  decades  of 
the  sixteenth  century  ? ^ What  was  it  that  in- 

• j ■!  -p)  T,  1 * XT’  j HTimSiHismi 

spired  such  men  as  Reuchlin,  Erasmus,  and 
Hutten?  Was  it  simply  the  revival  of  classical  learning? 
Was  it  merely  delight  in  the  discovery  of  a great  civili- 
zation buried  beneath  the  wreck  of  centuries  ? Was  it  pre- 
eminently an  aesthetic  pleasure  in  the  splendour  of  Cicero- 
nian eloquence  or  the  massiveness  of  Augustan  verse  ? Far 
from  it.  More  than  anything  else,  it  was  the  instinctive 
feeling  that  a new  era  in  the  history  of  mankind  was  dawn- 
ing, that  the  time  had  come  to  throw  off  the  fetters  of 
obsolete  tradition,  and  to  reach  out,  each  man  for  himself, 
into  the  heights  of  human  freedom  and  greatness.  It 
was  this  spirit  that  moved  the  quiet,  retiring  Reuchlin  to 


^ A bibliography  of  German  Humanism  in  L.  Geiger,  Renaissance 
u.  Humanis7nus  in  Italien  u.  Deutschland  p.  573  ff.  For  earlier 
German  Humanism  cf.  GG.  § 97  (Niclas  von  Wyle,  Heinr.  Stain- 
hoevvel,  Albrecht  von  Eyb).  M.  Herrmann,  Albrecht  von  Eyb  u.  d. 
Friihzeit  d.  deutschen  Hufnanismus.  K.  Burdach,  Vom  MA.  zur 
Reformation.  For  Konrad  Celtis  cf.  Allg.  D.  Biogr.  IV,  82  tE. 


142  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


throw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  whole  system  of  clerical 
learning^;  that  made  Hutten  exclaim^: 

Die  warheit  ist  von  newem  gborn 
Und  hatt  der  btrugk  sein  schein  verlorn, 

Des  sag  Gott  yeder  lob  und  eer 
Und  acht  nit  furter  lugen  meer; 

that  put  upon  the  lips  of  Erasmus  the  prayer*:  Sancte 

SocrateSy  ora  pro  nobtsC*  The  Humanistic  movement,  in  a 
word,  was  an  intellectual  revolution,  a search  for  new  prin- 
ciples of  human  conduct,  an  attempt  to  reconstruct  the 
spiritual  life  by  the  light  of  human  reason,  the  first  great 
declaration,  if  not  of  the  rights,  at  least  of  the  dignity  of 
man. 

The  Humanists  have  left  no  works  which  can  be  called 
great.  Their  force  was  spent  in  battle.  They  were  pioneers, 
they  were  violent  partisans.  Into  the  finer  problems  and 
the  deeper  mysteries  of  life  they  did  not  enter.  There  is  a 
certain  shallowness  and  showiness  in  even  the  best  of  them. 
And  yet  who  can  fail  to  perceive  in  them  a breath  of  that 
spirit  which  has  created  the  ideal  world  of  modern  hu- 
manity ? 

Erasmus,  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  movement,  has 
very  fittingly  been  compared  to  Voltaire.  He  was  a scoffer 
and  a merciless  critic.  No  more  scathing  satire 
of  the  existing  order  of  things  has  ever  been 
written  than  his  Moriae  Encomium  (1509).  To  represent 
the  world  as  ruled  by  Folly  was  no  new  device;  countless 
satirists  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  done  the  same  thing.  The 


* Cf.  his  Augenspiegely  the  Defensio  contra  calumniatores  ColonienseSy 
and  other  polemics  called  forth  through  his  controversy  with  the  Jew- 
baiter  Pfefferkorn.  Geiger,  Joh.  Reuchlin  p.  205  ff. 

^ Preface  to  his  Gesprdchbiichlein  ed.  Balke,  DNL.  XVII,  2,/.  285. 
^ Colloquia  familiariay  Opera  Lugd.  Batav.  1703,  I,  683.  Cf.  A. 
Horawitz  Ueher  die  colloquia  des  Erasmus  v.  R.  in  Histpr.  Taschenb^ 
VI,  6,  p.  55  ff.  Emile  Amiel,  Erasme  p.  337  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION 


143 


new  thing,  the  thing  which  startled  the  contemporaries  and 
gave  this  book  at  once  a European  reputation,  was  the  un- 
sparingly empirical  manner,  the  cold  rationalistic  way,  in 
which  even  the  most  fundamental  beliefs  and  the  most 
sacred  idols  of  the  time  were  held  up  to  ridicule.  Former 
critics  had  tried  to  heal  the  defects  of  church  and  state 
from  within;  here  was  a man  who  looked  at  the  whole  hier- 
archical system  from  without,  who  dared  to  place  his  own 
private  reason  over  and  above  the  towering  mass  of  time- 
honoured  fallacies  and  hallowed  superstitions.  Do  we  not 
seem  to  hear  an  ecrasez  Vinfame  in  the  following  passage^ 
on  the  inane  wisdom  of  the  schoolmen  of  the  time  ? 

“Whilst  being  happy  in  their  own  opinion,  and  as  if  they  dwelt  in 
the  third  heaven,  they  look  with  haughtiness  on  all  others  as  poor 
creeping  things,  and  could  almost  find  in  their  hearts  to  pitie  ^em. 
Whilst  hedg’d  in  with  so  many  magisterial  definitions,  conclusions, 
corollaries,  propositions  explicit  and  implicit,  they  abound  with  so 
many  starting  holes  that  Vulcan’s  net  cannot  hold  ’em  so  fast,  but 
they’ll  slip  through  with  their  distinctions,  with  which  they  so  easily 
cut  all  knots  asunder  that  a hatchet  could  not  have  done  it  better. 
They  explicate  the  most  hidden  mysteries  according  to  their  own 
fancie,  as:  how  the  world  was  first  made;  how  original  sin  is  deriv’d 
to  posterity;  in  what  manner,  how  much  room,  and  how  long  time, 
Christ  lay  in  the  Virgin’s  womb;  how  accidents  subsist  in  the  Eu- 
charist without  their  subject.  But  these  are  common  and  threadbare. 
These  are  worthy  of  our  great  and  illuminated  divines,  as  the  world 
calls  ’em,  at  these,  if  ever  they  fall  athwart  ’em,  they  prick  up,  as: 
whether  there  was  any  instant  of  time  in  the  generation  of  the  Second 
Person;  whether  there  be  more  than  one  filiation  in  Christ;  whether 
it  be  a possible  proposition  that  God  the  Father  hates  the  Son,  or 
whether  it  was  possible  that  Christ  could  have  taken  upon  him  the 
likeness  of  a woman,  or  of  the  devil,  or  of  an  ass,  or  of  a stone,  or  of 
a gourd;  and  then  how  that  gourd  should  have  preach’t,  wrought 
miracles,  or  been  hung  on  the  cross.  There  are  infinite  of  these  sub- 
tile trifles  and  other  more  subtile  than  these,  of  notions,  relations. 


® Trsl.  by  John  Wilson,  London  1668,/.  97.  Cf.  J.  A.  Froude, 
Life  and  Letters  of  Erasmus  p.  129  ff.  For  similar  attacks  by  Bu- 
schius,  Bebel,  and  other  Humanists  cf.  Paulsen,  Gesch,  d.  gel,  Un- 
terrichts  p.  47.  97. 


144  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


i-nstants,  formalities,  quiddities,  ecceities  which  no  one  can  perceive 
who  could  not  look  through  a stone  wall  and  discover  those  things 
through  the  thickest  darkness  that  never  were.” 

Or,  to  take  another  example,  does  not  this  passage  on  the 
follies  of  saint-worship®  sound  like  the  frivolous  laughter  of 
a La  Mettrie  ? 

“ As  every  one  of  them  (the  saints)  has  his  particular  gift,  so,  also, 
his  particular  form  of  worship.  As,  one  is  good  for  the  tooth  ache; 
another  for  groaning  women;  a third  for  stolen  goods;  a fourth  for 
making  a voyage  prosperous;  and  a fifth  to  cure  sheep  of  the  rot;  and 
so  of  the  rest,  for  it  would  be  too  tedious  to  run  over  all.  And  some 
there  are  that  are  good  for  more  things  than  one;  but  chiefly  the  Vir- 
gin Mother,  to  whom  the  common  people  do  in  a manner  attribute 
more  than  to  the  Son.  Yet  what  do  they  beg  of  these  saints,  but  what 
belongs  to  Folly  ? To  examine  it  a little:  among  all  those  offerings 
which  are  so  frequently  hung  up  in  churches,  nay  up  to  the  very  roof 
of  some  of  ’em,  did  you  ever  see  the  least  acknowledgment  from  any 
one  that  he  had  left  his  Folly,  or  grown  a hair’s-breadth  the  wiser? 
One  scapes  a ship  wrack  and  gets  safe  to  shore.  Another,  run 
through  in  a duel,  recovers.  Another,  while  the  rest  were  fighting, 
ran  out  of  the  field,  no  less  luckily  than  valiantly.  Another,  con- 
demn’d to  be  hang’d,  by  the  favour  of  some  saint  or  other,  a friend 
to  thieves,  got  off  himself  by  impeaching  his  fellows.  Another  es- 
cap’d by  breaking  prison.  Another’s  poison  turning  to  a looseness 
prov’d  his  remedy  rather  than  death;  and  that  to  his  wife’s  no  small 
sorrow,  in  that  she  lost  both  her  labour  and  her  charge.  Another’s 
cart  broke,  and  he  sav’d  his  horses.  Another  preserv’d  from  the  fall 
of  a house.  Another  taken  tardy  by  her  husband,  persuades  him  out 
of ’t.  All  these  hang  up  their  tablets;  but  no  one  gives  thanks  for 
his  recovery  from  Folly.  So  sweet  a thing  it  is,  not  to  be  wise,  that, 
on  the  contrary,  men  rather  pray  against  anything  than  Folly.” 

Undoubtedly,  Erasmus  and  his  followers  were  sarcastic 
rather  than  appreciative,  destroyers  rather  than  organizers. 
But  they  were  destroyers,  not  because  they  were  without 
ideals,  but  because  they  felt  the  value  of  the  ideal  so  deeply 
that  the  grossness  and  self-sufficiency  of  the  actual  world 
aroused  in  them  a noble  indignation.  And  they  were  sar- 
castic, not  because  they  held  low  views  of  human  life,  but 


® Encom.  Mor.  /.  69. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION, 


145 


because  they  held  higher  views  about  the  dignity  and  voca- 
tion of  man  than  the  bulk  of  their  contemporaries. 

There  is  no  single  book  which  demonstrates  this  more 
clearly  than  Erasmus’s  Manual  of  the  Christian  Soldier 
{Enchiridion  Militis  Christiania  i5o9)>  of  f^e  first  unmis- 
takable attempts  in  modern  history  to  make  reason  the  basis 
of  religious  experience.  Reason  is  to  Erasmus  a king,  a 
divine  counsellor  of  man.”  Enthroned  in  its  lofty  citadel, 
mindful  of  its  exalted  origin,  it  does  not  admit  a thought  of 
baseness  or  impurity.”  ^ It  is  to  reason  that  we  must  turn 
to  fathom  the  divine  wisdom,  it  is  here  that  the  roots  of 
self-perfection  lie.  To  the  unenlightened  mind  the  Bible 
remains  a labyrinth  of  contradictions,  a book  full  of  insipid 
and  even  immoral  incidents.  Through  rational  interpreta- 
tion we  learn  to  understand  it  as  a symbolical  expression  of 
moral  truths.  An  unthinking  piety  is  without  avail.  “ Christ 
despises  the  eating  of  his  flesh  and  the  drinking  of  his  blood, 
if  it  is  not  taken  spiritually.”  * ‘‘  God  hates  a well-fed,  cor- 

pulent devoutness.”®  But  the  rational  believer  sees  the 
working  of  the  divine  spirit  everywhere,  his  eye  is  open  to 
the  beauty,  the  wisdom,  the  virtue  of  all  ages,  he  penetrates 
to  the  very  core  of  Christianity.  ‘‘  For  Christ  is  nothing 
else  than  love,  simplicity,  patience,  purity,  in  short  all  that 
he  himself  taught;  and  the  devil  is  nothing  but  that  which 
draws  us  away  from  those  ideals.” 

It  is  evident  that  this  sort  of  rationalism,  bursting  as  it 
did  upon  an  age  full  of  religious  emotions  and  in  the  main 
guided  by  an  undoubting  faith,  could  not  help  acting  as  a 
moral  dissolvent;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so 
many  of  the  young  Humanists  were  plunged  into  a life  of 
wild  conflicts  and  consuming  passions.  In  most  of  them 


Enchiridion  Militis  Christiani  ed.  Ludg.  Bat.  1641  p.  96  : rationi 
tanquam  regi.  97  : consultor  ille  divinus,  sublimi  in  arce  praesidens, 
memor  originis  suae,  nihil  sordidum,  nihil  humile  cogitat. 

^ Ib,p,  171.  ^ Ib.  p.  173.  Ib.  p.  145. 


146  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  result  was  simply  a sinking  to  the  level  of  the  common- 
place. But  when,  as  in  the  case  of  Ulrich  von  Hutten, 
a sturdy  mind  and  a fiery  soul  were  wasted  in  this  conflict, 
the  sadness  of  this  issue  was  relieved  by  a note  of  genuine 
greatness.  For  in  Hutten  certainly,  if  in  none  other,  this 
very  struggle  brought  out  all  the  intellectual  enthusiasm  and 
moral  idealism,  which,  after  all,  were  the  fundamental  forces 
of  the  Humanistic  movement. 

If  Erasmus  has  been  compared  to  Voltaire,  Hutten  may 
justly  be  called  a forerunner  of  Lessing.  No  one,  not  even 
Luther,  has  fought  more  sturdily  for  the  free- 
dom of  conscience,  no  one  has  been  a better 
hater  of  any  kind  of  usurpation.  His  life  stands  to  us  as 
a symbol  of  that  wonderful  flight  of  thought  and  feeling 
which  the  German  people  took  under  the  inspiration  of 
the  first  great  moments  of  Luther’s  work. 

Hutten  had  already  won  his  place  as  a writer  when 
Luther  struck  his  first  blows  against  the  papal  system.  He 
had  taken  part  in  that  memorable  campaign  of  the  Human- 
ists against  the  old  time  scholasticism,  which  began  with 
Reuchlin’s  protest  against  the  Dominican  persecution  of 
Jewish  literature,  and  which  culminated  in  the  famous 
Epistolcz  obscurorum  virorum  (15 15-17),  that  collection  of 
fictitious  letters  presenting  a glaring  caricature  of  the 
monkish  party  with  all  its  filth,  ignorance,  and  fanaticism. 
In  biting  satire  he  had  held  up  to  ridicule  the  arrogance 
and  nothingness  of  professorial  learning,  contrasting  it  with 
the  fulness  and  glory  of  a life  devoted  to  the  free  pursuit  of 
truth."  In  high-flown  rhetoric  he  had  entreated  the  em- 
peror to  guard  the  honour  of  the  state  against  inner  and 
outer  foes."  But  it  was  only  Luther’s  redeeming  word 

Cf.  the  satire  Nemo,  Schriften  ed.  Rocking  III,  107  ff.  Especially 
significant  the  dedication  to  Crotus  Rubianus,  ib.  I,  187.  Strauss, 
Ulrich  V.  Hutten  p.  105  ff.— The  Epistolae  obscur.  vir.  in  the  Suppl. 
to  the  Schriften.  Cf.  Paulsen  /.  c.  49  ff. 

Cf.  especially  the  Epigrams  addressed  to  Maximilian  {Schr.  Ill, 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  1 4/ 

that  aroused  him  to  the  full  consciousness  of  his  own 
mission. 

To  be  sure,  the  chief  object  of  his  writings  remained  as 
it  had  been,  war  to  the  knife  against  the  church  of  Rome. 
But  the  spirit  of  his  attacks  underwent  a change  under 
Luther’s  influence.  Formerly  he  had  been  a scoffer,  now 
he  became  a prophet;  formerly  he  had  addressed  himself  to 
the  small  circle  of  the  educated,  now  he  became  the  spokes- 
man of  a whole  people;  formerly  he  had  written  in  Latin  ex- 
clusively, now  he  translated  his  own  writings  into  German; 
formerly  he  had  looked  down  upon  the  theological  disputes 
of  the  ecclesiastics  as  unworthy  trifles,  now  he  recognised 
the  Wittenberg  monk  as  his  ‘‘dearest  brother,”  as  “ the  ser- 
vant of  God,”  and  pledged  to  his  cause  his  own  life  and 
earthly  possessions.^^ 

From  the  artistic  point  of  view,  Hutten’s  most  important 
contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  Reformation  are  the 
two  volumes  oi  Dialogues  v^hich.  appeared  in  1520  and  1521. 
A true  little  masterpiece,  full  of  Lucianic  wit,  and  teeming 
with  a noble  patriotic  fervour,  is  the  scene,  in  Die  Anschauen- 
den^  where  Sol  and  Phaeton  from  their  heavenly  heights 
look  down  upon  the  imperial  diet  held  at  Augsburg  in 
1518.^'*  Their  attention  is  attracted  by  a magnificent  pro- 
cession: cardinal  Gaetani,  who,  as  Sol  explains  to  his 
son,  has  been  sent  by  the  pope  to  extort  money  from  the 
Germans,  is  being  conducted  to  the  city  hall  in  solemn 
state.  Phaeton  asks:  “ How  long  is  the  pope  going  to  play 
this  shameful  game  ? ” Sol:  “ Until  the  Germans,  whom  up 
to  the  present  time  he  has  led  by  the  nose,  shall  recover 
their  senses.”  Phaeton:  “Is  the  time  near  when  they  will 

205  ff.  Strauss  /.  c.  p.  65  ff.)and  the  orations  against  Ulric  of  Wiirtem- 
berg  {Schr,  IV,  i ff.  Strauss/.  79  ff.). 

13  Eyn  klag  iiber  den  Luterischen  Brandt  zu  MentZy  Schr.  Ill,  459. 

Die  Ansckauenden  ed.  Balke,  DNL.  XVII,  2,/.  295  ff. — For  the 
dates  of  Hutten’s  Reformation  pamphlets  cf.  S.  Szamatblski,  Ulrichs 
V.  Hutien  deutsche  Schriften  /.  53  ff. 


148  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

recover  their  senses?'"  Sol:  ‘‘Very  near.  For  this  car- 
dinal will  be  the  first  to  go  home  with  empty  bags,  to  the 
great  dismay  of  the  Holy  City,  where  they  never  would  have 
believed  the  barbarians  would  stand  their  own  ground." 
Phaeton:  “The  Germans,  then,  belong  to  the  barbarians?’" 
Sol:  “ According  to  the  judgment  of  the  Romans  they  do, 
they  no  less  than  the  French  and  all  other  peoples  outside 
of  Italy.  But  if  you  consider  good  morals  and  friendly  in- 
tercourse, zeal  in  all  virtues,  steadiness  and  honesty  of 
mind,  then  the  Germans  are  the  most  highly  cultivated  nation, 
and  the  Romans  the  most  hopeless  barbarians.  For  they 
are  corrupted  through  effeminacy  and  luxury;  and  you  find 
with  them  fickleness  and  inconstancy,  little  faith  and  trust, 
but  trickery  and  malice  more  than  with  any  other  people.” 
Phaeton:  “ I like  what  you  tell  me  of  the  Germans,  if  they 
only  were  not  given  so  much  to  drunkenness.”  There  fol- 
lows an  animated  conversation  between  the  two  heavenly 
observers  about  the  social  and  political  condition  of  the 
German  people,  and  the  abuses  of  the  Roman  church, 
which,  however,  is  suddenly  cut  short  when  they  hear  the 
cardinal  in  great  excitement  flinging  angry  words  at  them 
from  below.  Incensed  at  their  freedom  of  speech,  he  pro- 
nounces the  papal  excommunication  against  them,  where- 
upon with  a scornful  smile  they  leave  him  to  the  contempt 
of  mankind.  Phaeton:  “I  leave  you  to  the  laughter  of  the 
Germans.  May  they  chase  you  away  with  shame,  and  make 
you  an  example  for  future  times.  Be  the  derision  of  the 
world!  That  is  a fitting  punishment  for  you.”  Sol:  “ Let 
the  wretch  alone.  It  is  time  to  turn  our  chariot  downward, 
and  to  give  room  to  the  evening  star.  Let  Lim  yonder  go  on 
lying,  cheating,  stealing,  robbing,  and  pillaging  at  his  own 
risk.”  Phaeton:  “Yes,  and  go  to  the  deuce,  too!  But  I’ll 
drive  on  the  horses  and  resume  our  westward  course.” 

If  this  dialogue  is  distinguished  by  elegance  of  com- 
position and  gracefulness  of  invention,  there  are  others  that 
excel  it  in  depth  of  passion.  What  an  irresistible,  over- 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION, 


149 


whelming  force  there  is  in  the  repetition  of  those  threefold 
accusations  which  like  echoing  thunder  roll  upon  us  again 
and  again  from  the  Ro7nan  Triad  {Tie  Romische  Dreifaltig- 
keit)V^  ‘‘Three  things  uphold  the  Roman  authority:  the 
papal  power,  relics,  and  indulgences.  Three  things  are 
brought  home  by  those  who  make  a pilgrimage  to  Rome:  a 
bad  conscience,  a sick  stomach,  and  an  empty  purse. 
Three  things  are  killed  at  Rome:  a good  conscience,  re- 
ligion, and  a binding  oath.  Three  things  the  Romans  sneer 
at:  the  example  of  the  ancients,  St.  Peter's  memory,  and 
the  last  judgment.  Three  things  are  banished  from  Rome: 
simplicity,  continence,  and  honesty.  Three  things  are  for 
sale  at  Rome:  Christ,  spiritual  offices,  and  women."  And 
what  reader,  even  of  the  present  day,  can  fail  to  be 
thrilled  by  the  flaming  words  with  which  Hutten  in  his 
reply  to  the  papal  excommunication  against  Luther  {Bitlla 
vel  Bullicidd)  summons  the  German  youth  to  bring  succour 
to  endangered  Liberty  ? “ Oh,  hither,  ye  freemen!  It  is 

our  common  cause,  our  common  weal!  The  flame  of  war  is 
spreading.  Come  hither  all  ye  who  want  to  be  free.  Here 
the  tyrants  shall  be  smitten,  here  the  bondage  shall  be 
broken.  Where  are  you,  freemen  ? Where  are  you,  nobles  ? 
Men  of  great  names,  where  are  you  ? Heads  of  nations,  why 
do  you  not  rally  to  deliver  the  common  fatherland  from 
this  plague  ? Is  there  no  one  who  is  ashamed  of  servitude 
and  cannot  wait  to  be  free  ? — They  have  heard  me.  A hun- 
dred thousand  I see  coming  on.  Thanks  to  the  gods!  Ger- 
many has  become  herself!  Now  woe  to  you,  bull  of  Leo!  " 
Ulrich  von  Hutten  could  indeed  say  of  himself”: 

Ich  habs  gewagt  mit  sinnen 

Und  trag  des  noch  kein  reu; 

Mag  ich  nit  draii  gewinnen, 

Noch  muss  man  spiiren  treu. 


Cf.  Strauss,  Huttens  Gesprdche  p.  114  ff. 

*6  Ib.  p,  259.  DNL.  XVII,  2,  p.  269. 


ISO  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


He  could  indeed  call  himself  Truth’s  most  devoted 
champion 

Von  wahrheit  ich  will  nimmer  Ian, 

Das  soil  mir  bitten  ab  kein  mann. 

Auch  schafft  zu  stillen  mich  kein  wehr, 

Kein  bann,  kein  acht,  wie  vast  und  sehr 
Man  mich  darmi't  zu  schrecken  meint. 

Wie  wol  mein  fromme  mutter  weint 
Do  ich  die  sach  hett  gfangen  an — 

Gott  woll  sie  trdsten — es  muss  gan! 

And  if  his  life  was  by  no  means  free  from  blemishes, 
if  the  flame  of  his  passion  did  not  always  burn  purely,  he 
at  least  never  palliated  his  own  defects.  And  Death, 
finding  him,  as  it  did,  wounded,  disarmed,  and  with  broken 
hopes,  still  found  him  a man. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Luther,  in  his  first  great 
revolutionary  writings,  strove,  although  in  a different  spirit, 
after  exactly  the  same  ideal  which  the  Human- 
ists had  at  heart:  a strong,  sweeping  religious 
individualism.  That  he  himself  felt  this  to  be  the  under- 
lying thought  of  his  Theses  against  the  sale  of  indulgences 
(1517)  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  in  sending  them  to  a 
friend  he  signed  himself  as  Martinus  Eleutherius  (Mar- 
tin the  Freeman),  adding  these  unmistakable  words 
‘‘  Why  were  Christ  and  all  the  martyrs  put  to  death  ? Why 
did  most  of  the  great  teachers  incur  hatred  and  envy,  if  not 
because  they  were  bold  despisers  of  old  far-famed  wisdom, 
or  because,  without  consulting  the  preservers  of  old  knowl- 
edge, they  brought  forward  a new  thing  ? ” But  the  works 
in  which  Luther  set  forth  what  is  truly  vital  and  permanent 
in  his  doctrine,  in  which  he  spoke  the  word  that  was  to 
revolutionize  all  modern  life,  in  which  he  anticipated  what 

^8  DNL,  XVII,  2,  p.  286. 

Luthers  Briefe  ed.  de  Wette  I,  73.  Cf.  Th.  Kolde,  Martin 
Luther  I,  146. — A masterly  presentation  of  Luther’s  religious  develop- 
ment in  K.  Lamprecht,  Deutsche  Gesc/nchte  V,  i,  p.  221  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION  15I 

has  become  a reality  only  in  our  day,  were  the  three  great 
manifestoes  of  the  year  1520:  the  address  To  the  Christian 
Nobility  of  the  Ger??ian  N at io7i  on  the  Improvement  of  Chris- 
tian Society,  the  pamphlet  On  the  Babylonish  Captivity  of  the 
Churchy  and  the  essay  On  the  Liberty  of  a Christian  Man, 

Let  us  examine  somewhat  more  closely  these  three  great 
pillars  of  our  own  spiritual  existence. 

The  address  to  the  German  nobility  is  Luther's  first  com- 
prehensive avowal  of  religious  independence.  As  Joshua 
led  the  children  of  Israel  against  Jericho,  so  Vondes 
Luther  in  this  treatise  is  going  to  lead  the  Ger- 
man  knighthood  against  the  walls  of  Rome;  and  serung. 
he  prays  God  to  give  him  a trumpet,  before  whose  blast 
the  straw  and  paper  walls  of  the  enemy  shall  fall.  Three 
such  walls  there  are,  behind  which  the  papacy  has  in- 
trenched itself. 

The  first  wall  is  the  assertion  that  there  exists  a special 
spiritual  order,  distinct  from  the  secular,  and  in  all  respects 
superior  to  it.  This,  Luther  says,  is  a mere  fiction  of 
Rome.  All  Christians  are  of  a truly  spiritual  order.  Christ 
has  made  us  all  priests:  the  pope  can  make  no  one  a priest. 

The  infant,  when  he  creeps  out  of  the  baptismal  font, 
may  boast  to  have  already  been  consecrated  priest,  bishop, 
and  pope.”^®  There  is  a difference  between  men  with 
regard  to  their  external  occupation  only.  As  there  are  shoe- 
makers, smiths,  peasants,  so  there  may  be  priests  also;  that 
is,  men  whose  external  occupation  it  is  to  administer  the 
public  services  of  religion.  Inwardly,  every  true  Christian 
has  aright  to  this  office;  to  its  outward  exercise  only  he  is 
entitled  on  whom  the  right  has  been  conferred  by  the  com- 
munity. The  community,  then,  elects  the  priest,  it  deposes 
him,  it  is  the  only  sovereign  in  the  spiritual  administration. 
“ If  it  should  happen  that  a person  elected  to  such  an  office 


An  den  christl.  Adel  deutscher  Nation  von  des  christl,  Standes  Bes- 
serung^  NddLw.  nr,  4,  p,  8. 


152  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

through  his  abuse  of  it  were  deposed,  then  he  would  be  as 
he  was  before, — a peasant  or  a burgher,  like  the  rest.*'  Thus 
the  first  wall  of  the  papists  is  shattered. 

The  second  wall  is  the  assertion  that  nobody  but  the  pope 
has  the  right  to  interpret  the  Holy  Scriptures.  This  is  a 
wantonly  concocted  fable.  Has  not  the  pope  often  erred  ? 
Have  there  not  been,  in  all  ages,  pious  Christians  who 
understood  Christ's  spirit  better  than  the  pope  ? Are  not 
all  of  us  priests  ? Why,  then,  should  we  not  be  able  to 
perceive  and  judge  what  is  right  and  wrong  in  belief  ? 
What  means  the  word  of  Paul:  A spiritual  man  judges  all 
things,  and  is  judged  by  nobody  ? ‘'So  let  us,  then,  be 
courageous  and  free;  and  let  not  the  spirit  of  liberty  be 
stifled  by  the  fictitious  assumptions  of  popery;  but  boldly 
forward  ! to  judge  all  that  they  do  and  all  that  they  leave 
undone  according  to  our  trustful  understanding  of  the 
Scriptures.  If  God  spoke  through  an  ass  against  the 
prophet  Balaam,  why  should  he  not  speak  now  through  us 
against  the  pope  ?" 

The' third  wall  is  the  claim  of  the  pope  that  he  alone  has 
the  right  to  call  an  ecclesiastical  council.  This  wall  falls 
by  itself  with  the  two  others.  When  the  pope  acts  con- 
trary to  the  Scriptures,  then  it  is  our  duty  to  uphold  the 
Scriptures  against  the  pope.  We  must  arraign  him  before 
the  community,  and  therefore  the  community  must  be 
gathered  in  a council.  And  every  Christian,  no  matter  of 
what  rank  or  condition,  has  a sacred  obligation  to  co- 
operate in  such  an  endeavour.  “ If  there  is  a fire  in  the 
city,  shall  the  citizens  stand  still  and  let  the  fire  burn 
because  they  are  not  the  burgomaster,  or  because  the  fire 
perhaps  began  in  the  burgomaster’s  own  house?””  So,  in 
Christ’s  spiritual  city,  if  there  arises  the  fire  of  scandal,  it  is 
the  duty  and  right  of  every  man  to  lend  a hand  to  quench 
the  flame. 


NddLw,  nr,  4,  p.  9. 


32  Ib,  p,  14. 


Ib,p.  15. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION 


153 


There  follow  in  the  greater  part  of  the  pamphlet  a de- 
scription of  the  evils  that  existed  in  the  church  of  Luther’s 
time,  and  radical  propositions  for  their  reform.  Germany, 
he  says,  ought  to  be  purged  of  the  vile,  devilish  rule  of  the 
Romans.  For  Rome  is  draining  the  nation  in  such  a way 
that  “ it  is  a wonder  that  we  have  still  anything  left  to  eat.” 
It  would  not  be  strange  if  God  should  rain  fire  and  brim- 
stone from  heaven,  and  hurl  Rome  into  the  abyss,  as  in 
olden  times  he  hurled  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  O noble 
princes  and  lords,  how  long  will  you  suffer  your  land  and 
your  people  to  be  a prey  to  these  ravaging  wolves  ?”  All 
money  contributions  to  Rome  he  would  have  forbidden; 
every  envoy  of  the  pope  that  should  come  to  Germany  he 
would  have  ordered  to  quit  the  country  or  to  jump  into  the 
Rhine,  to  give  the  Roman  brief  a cold  bath.  The  German 
bishops  should  cease  to  be  mere  figures  and  tools  in  the 
hands  of  the  pope;  none  of  them  should  be  allowed  to 
ask  to  have  his  election  confirmed  in  Rome.  The  temporal 
power  of  the  pope  should  be  entirely  abolished.  All  holi- 
days ought  to  be  done  away  with,  or  restricted  to  Sundays. 
All  pilgrimages  ought  to  be  prohibited,  and  the  chapels  of 
pilgrimage  be  demolished.  The  marriage  of  priests  should 
be  allowed.  Spiritual  punishments — as  interdict,  ban,  sus- 
pension— are  horrible  plagues  imposed  by  the  evil  spirit 
upon  Christianity,  and  ought,  therefore,  to  be  abrogated. 
On  the  whole,  the  entire  canon  law,  from  its  first  letter  to 
the  last,  ought  to  be  uprooted. 

This  pamphlet  to  the  German  nobility  preaches,  indeed, 
nothing  less  than  a complete  revolution  of  the  religious  and 
social  order  as  it  then  existed.  And  Luther  himself  was 
fully  aware  that  these  few  pages  contained  the  programme 
of  a new  chapter  in  the  history  of  mankind.  I consider 
well”  (these  are  his  closing  words ‘‘that  I have  pitched 
my  song  high  and  brought  forward  many  things  that  will  be 


NddLw,  nr.  4,  p.  20.  24. 


25  Ib,  /.  79.  80. 


154  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


thought  impossible.  But  what  shall  I do  ? I am  bound 
to  say  it.  I would  rather  have  the  world  angry  with  me 
than  God.  Therefore,  let  them  come  on,  whether  he  be 
pope,  bishop,  priest,  monk,  or  scholar;  they  are  just  the 
right  ones  to  persecute  truth,  as  they  have  always  done. 
May  God  give  us  all  a Christian  understanding,  and,  above 
all,  to  the  Christian  nobility  of  the  German  nation  a true  spir- 
itual courage  to  do  their  best  for  the  poor  church.  Amen.’' 

A further  step  in  the  emancipation  of  secular  life  from 
ecclesiastical  pretensions  was  taken  in  the  pamphlet  on  the 
De  captidtate  Captivity  of  the  Churchy  which  ap- 

Babylonica  peared  in  the  same  year  with  the  address  to 
ecclesiae.  nobility.  One  of  the  chief  means  by  which 

the  mediaeval  church  walled  about  the  life  of  the  people  was 
the  doctrine  of  the  sacraments.  Without  baptism,  no 
promise  of  grace;  without  confirmation,  no  continuance  of 
it;  without  holy  communion,  no  sight  of  God;  without  the 
sanction  of  the  church,  no  marital  union;  without  the  author- 
ity of  the  church,  no  right  of  priesthood;  without  extreme 
unction,  no  hope  of  eternal  life.  From  the  bondage  of 
these  ecclesiastical  enactments  Luther  finds  in  the  Bible 
the  right  to  free  the  people.  Neither  confirmation,  nor 
penance,  nor  marriage,  nor  consecration  of  priests,  nor 
extreme  unction,  have  a right  to  existence,  as  church  insti- 
tutions, through  any  recognition  or  especial  promise  in  the 
Bible.  Above  all,  the  sanction  of  marriage  and  the 
anointing  of  priests  are  nothing  but  arbitrary  encroachments 
of  the  church  upon  purely  human  relations. 

“ Since  matrimony,”  he  says,^^  “has  existed  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  and  still  continues  even  among  unbelievers,  there  are  no 

The  real  meaning  of  sacrament,  according  to  Luther,  is  “a 
promise  of  blessing  from  God  to  his  children,  confirmed  by  an  out- 
ward and  visible  sign.”  Two  such  promises,  accompanied  by  two 
such  signs,  he  finds  in  baptism  and  communion  ; and  these  alone  he 
recognises  as  means  of  grace. 

De  captivitate  Babylonica  ecclesiae^  Luthers  Werke^  Krit,  Gesammt- 
ausg.  VI,  550  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION, 


155 


reasons  why  it  should  be  called  a sacrament  of  the  new  law  and  the 
church  alone.  The  marriages  of  the  patriarchs  were  not  less  mar- 
riages than  ours,  nor  are  those  of  unbelievers  less  real  than  those  of 
believers  ; and  yet  no  one  calls  them  a sacrament.  Moreover,  there 
are  among  believers  wicked  husbands  and  wives  worse  than  any 
gentiles.  Why  should  we,  then,  say:  there  is  sacrament  here,  and 
not  among  the  gentiles  ? Shall  we  so  trifle  with  baptism  and  the 
church  as  to  say  that  matrimony  is  a sacrament  in  the  church  only?’’ 

And  still  more  strongly  than  in  the  address  to  the 
nobility  he  condemns  the  self-glorification  of  the  priesthood, 
asserting  again  and  again  the  inalienable  rights  of  common 
humanity. 

“ What  then,’’  he  exclaims, “ is  there  in  you  that  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  layman  ? Your  tonsure  and  your  vestments  ? Wretched 
priesthood,  which  consists  in  tonsure  and  vestments  ! Is  it  the  oil 
poured  on  your  fingers?  Every  Christian  is  anointed  and  sanctified 
in  body  and  soul  with  the  oil  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  . . . When  I see 
how  far  the  sacrosanct  sanctity  of  these  orders  has  already  gone,  I 
expect  that  the  time  will  come  when  the  laity  will  not  even  be 
allowed  to  touch  the  altar  except  when  they  offer  money.  I almost 
burst  with  anger  when  I think  of  the  impious  tyranny  of  these  reck- 
less men  who  mock  and  ruin  the  liberty  and  glory  of  the  religion  of 
Christ  by  such  frivolous  and  puerile  triflings.  . . . Those  priests  and 
bishops  with  whom  the  church  is  crowded  at  the  present  day,  unless 
they  work  out  their  salvation  on  another  plan — that  is,  unless  they 
acknowledge  themselves  to  be  neither  priests  nor  bishops,  and  repent 
of  bearing  the  name  of  an  office  the  work  of  which  they  either  do  not 
know  or  cannot  fulfil,  and  thus  deplore  with  prayers  and  tears  the 
miserable  fate  of  their  hypocrisy, — are  verily  the  people  of  eternal 
perdition,  concerning  whom  the  saying  will  be  fulfilled  : * My  people 
are  gone  into  captivity,  because  they  have  no  knowledge  ; and  their 
honourable  men  are  famished,  and  their  multitude  dried  up  with  thirst. 
Therefore,  hell  hath  enlarged  herself,  and  opened  her  mouth  without 
measure  ; and  their  glory,  and  their  multitude,  and  their  pomp,  and 
he  that  rejoiceth  shall  descend  into  it.’  ” 

It  shows  the  extraordinary  productivity  of  Luther's  mind 
that  the  same  year  in  which  he  published  the  address  to  the 


Luthers  Werke  1.  c.  566  f. 


156  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


nobility  and  the  pamphlet  on  the  captivity  of  the  church 
saw  also  a third  treatise  from  his  hand,  in  which 
heiteines  tried  to  establish  a positive  foundation  of 

Christen*  morals,  which  should  find  its  sanction  exclu- 
menschen.  • i • • j 

sively  in  the  inner  consciousness  and  personality 

of  the  individual.  This  is  the  precious  little  tract  On  the 
Liberty  of  a Christian  Man. 

The  whole  of  this  essay  is  summed  up  in  the  two  anti- 
thetical propositions  which  stand  at  its  head  : “A  Chris- 
tian man  is  the  freest  lord  of  all,  and  subject  to  none. 
A Christian  man  is  the  most  dutiful  servant  of  all,  and  sub- 
ject to  every  one.’' 

Wherein,  according  to  Luther,  lies  this  lordship  of  the 
Christian  man  over  all  things  ? Luther  answers  with  the 
Mystics  : in  faith,  in  an  inward  renunciation  of  the  indi- 
vidual to  God,  in  a personal  surrender  to  his  word.  To 
many  this  faith  seems  an  easy  thing  ; but,  in  truth,  nobody 
can  even  conceive  of  it  who  has  not  under  deep  tribulations 
acquired  it  by  himself.  He,  however,  who  has  once  at- 
tained it  cannot  cease  to  speak  and  write  of  it.  He  needs 
no  external  thing  any  longer,  he  has  all — comfort,  food,  joy, 
peace,  light,  power,  justice,  truth,  wisdom,  liberty,  and  all 
good  things  in  abundance.  ‘‘  The  soul  which  cleaves  to 
the  promises  of  God  with  a firm  faith  is  so  united  to  them, 
nay,  thoroughly  absorbed  by  them,  that  it  not  only  partakes 
in  but  is  penetrated  and  saturated  by  all  their  virtue.  For, 
if  the  touch  of  Christ  was  health,  how  much  more  does  that 
spiritual  touch,  nay,  absorption  of  the  word  communicate 
to  the  soul  all  that  belongs  to  the  word  ! As  is  the  word, 
such  is  the  soul  made  by  it, — just  as  iron  exposed  to  fire 
glows  like  fire  on  account  of  its  union  with  the  fire.” 
Thus  the  Christian  has  been  elevated  above  all  things,  and 


Von  der  Freiheit  eines  Christen  menschen,  Luthers  Schriften  ed. 
E.  Wolff,  DNL.  XV,  80.  Cf.  J.  Kdstlin,  Luthers  Leben^  p.  223  ff. 

30  Ib.  84. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION. 


IS7 


has  become  lord  of  all.  For  nothing  can  prevent  his  salva- 
tion. It  is  a lofty  and  eminent  dignity,  a true  and 
almighty  dominion,  a spiritual  empire,  in  which  there  is  noth- 
ing so  good,  nothing  so  bad,  as  not  to  work  together  for  my 
good,  if  I only  believe.” 

The  second  part  of  the  original  proposition — namely,  that 
a Christian  man  is  the  most  dutiful  servant  of  all,  and 
subject  to  every  one  ” — is  only  an  outgrowth  of  the  first. 
It  is  the  application  of  faith  to  practice,  it  is  the  message 
of  man’s  service  to  mankind. 

“ The  good  things  which  we  have  from  God  ought  to  flow  from  one 
to  another  and  become  common  to  all,  so  that  every  one  of  us  may, 
as  it  were,  put  on  his  neighbour,  and  so  behave  towards  him  as  if  he 
were  himself  in  his  place.  They  flowed  and  do  flow  from  Christ  to 
us  : he  put  us  on  and  acted  for  us  as  if  he  himself  were  what  we  are. 
From  us  they  flow  to  those  who  have  need  of  them.  We  conclude, 
therefore,  that  a Christian  man  does  not  live  in  himself,  but  in  Christ 
and  in  his  neighbour,  or  else  is  no  Christian  : in  Christ  by  faith,  in  his 
neighbour  by  love.  By  faith  he  is  carried  upwards  above  himself  to 
God,  and  by  love  he  sinks  back  below  himself  to  his  neighbour.” 

In  1521  Albrecht  Dlirer,  while  travelling  in  the  Nether- 
lands, was  startled  by  a rumour  of  Luther’s  having  been  as- 
sassinated. The  words  of  passionate  grief  which  this  re- 
port wrung  from  Diirer’s  lips,  and  which  have 
been  preserved  in  his  diary,  show  perhaps  more 
clearly  than  any  other  single  utterance  what  a 
future  there  was  before  the  German  people  if  the  wonder- 
ful idealism  of  its  great  reformers  had  been  supported  by 
an  unwavering,  sober,  broad-minded  public  opinion.  After 
having  inveighed  against  the  insidious  policy  of  the  Roman 
See,  to  which,  he  thought,  Luther  had  fallen  a victim, 
Diirer  goes  on  to  say  : 

“ And  if  we  really  should  have  lost  this  man  who  has  written  in  a 
more  enlightened  manner  than  any  one  for  the  last  hundred  and  forty 

31  lb.  87  f.  32 

33  Cf,  Albrecht  Diirer s Tagebuch  ed.  F.  Leitschuh  p.  82. 


IS8  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LlIERATURE. 


years  [i.e.,  since  Wycliffe],  and  to  whom  thou,  O Heavenly  Father, 
hast  given  such  an  evangelic  mind,  then  we  pray  thee  that  thou  wilt 
again  give  thy  Holy  Spirit  to  some  man  who  may  bind  together  thy 
holy  Christian  church,  so  that  we  may  live  again  peaceably,  and  as 
true  Christians.  . . . But  as  thy  Son,  Jesus  Christ,  had  to  be  put  to 
death  by  the  priests  in  order  to  rise  from  death  and  ascend  to  heaven, 
so  perhaps  thou  wiliest  it  to  be  done  likewise  to  thy  servant  Martin 
Luther,  whom  the  pope  with  his  money  has  so  treacherously  de- 
prived of  his  life.  And  as  thou  didst  ordain  that  Jerusalem  be  de- 
stroyed for  it,  so  thou  wilt  destroy  the  arbitrary  power  of  the 
Roman  See.  And  after  that,  O Lord,  give  us  the  new  beautiful 
Jerusalem,  descending  from  heaven,  about  which  it  is  written  in  the 
Apocalypse,  the  holy  unalloyed  Gospel,  unobscured  by  human  wil- 
fulness.’^ 

Dlirer  himself  is  the  most  illustrious  proof  of  the  artis«> 
tic  perfection  to  which  the  inspiration  of  this  great  moral 
uplifting  might  have  led.  His  Four  Apostles,  painted  in  1526 
Durer’s  Four  ^he  city  of  Niirnberg,  his  native  town,*'^  will 
Apostles.  forever  stand  as  the  most  complete  incarnation 
of  the  German  national  spirit  in  the  age  of  Luther.  The 
two  principal  figures  are  John  and  Paul,  Luther’s  favourite 


Cfo  M.  Thausing,  Durer  p.  483  ff. — That  a victory  of  the  demo- 
cratic principles  underlying  the  religious  Reformation  would  probably 
have  brought  about  the  growth  of  a truly  national  German  drama  may 
be  inferred  from  the  existence  in  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century 
of  a Protestant  drama  which,  while  preserving  the  popular  character  of 
the  religious  plays  of  the  fifteenth  century,  at  the  same  time  stands  in  the 
service  of  the  new  spiritual  life.  Cf.,  e.g..  Die  Totenfresser  by  Pam- 
philus  Gengenbach  (c.  1521),  Der  Ablasskrdmer  by  Niklaus  Manuel 
(1525),  Der  verlorne  Sohn  by  Burkard  Waldis  (1527),  Paul  Rebhuhn's 
Susanna  (1535)  in  : Froning,  Das  Drama  der  Reformationszeit  DNL, 
XXII.  If  we  compare  with  works  like  these  the  dramatic  produc- 
tions of  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century  ' the  plays  of  the  English  comedians  (DNL.  XXIII.)  and 
their  imitators,  such  as  Jacob  Ayrer  (ed.  Keller,  Bibliothek  d.  Litter. 
Vereins  LXXVI  ff.)  and  Duke  Heinrich  Julius  of  Brunswick  (ed. 
Tittmann,  Deutsche  Dichter  d.  16.  Jhdts  XIV.),  we  find  ourselves 
transported  from  the  free  air  of  popular  art  into  the  stifling  atmosphere 
of  technical  drill,  sensational  effects,  and  clownish  slang. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMA  TIOH. 


159 


writers.  John,  the  type  of  a tall,  strongly  built,  blond 
German  youth,  wrapt  in  his  wide  red  mantle,  standing 
erect,  his  chaste,  manly,  thoughtful  head  slightly  bent 
forward,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  open  Bible  which  he 
holds  in  his  hands.  Paul,  the  very  image  of  a spiritual 
warrior.  His  long  flowing  beard,  the  swollen  vein  in  his 
forehead,  the  mighty  skull,  the  threatening  eye,  the  massive 
neck,  the  majestic  folds  of  his  white  mantle,  the  naked 
sword  in  his  right  hand, — all  this  reminds  one^Df  an  old  Ger- 
manic chieftain.  But  what  he  fights  for  is  not  a hoard  of 
gold,  not  the  booty  of  fair  women,  it  is  the  book  which 
he  holds  clasped  in  his  left  hand,  it  is  the  same  eternal 
truth,  the  gospel  of  redeemed  humanity,  which  John  is 
represented  as  contemplating.  Both  figures  together  bring 
before  us  that  magnificent  union  of  fearless  speculation  and 
firm,  unswerving  faith  which  has  made  the  Germany  of  the 
Reformation  period  the  classic  soil  of  spiritual  and  moral 
freedom. 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  causes  which,  between  1525 
and  1530,  brought  the  Reformation  movement  to  a stand- 
still, and  checked  the  upward  idealistic  current  ^ . 

’ . , The  turning- 

of  German  literature.  To  say  it  once  more:  point  of  the 
the  chief  reason  was  the  absence  in  the  Germany  Reformation, 
of  the  sixteenth  century  of  a strong  national  will,  of  an  en- 
lightened public  opinion.  Divided  into  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  little  independent  sovereignties,  separated  in  itself 
by  class  prejudices  and  provincial  jealousies,  without  effi- 
cient organs  of  popular  legislation,  even  without  a truly 
national  dynasty,  the  German  people  did  not  as  yet  feel 
itself  as  a whole.  The  result  was  that  the  religious 
Reformation,  instead  of  being  borne  along  by  an  irresistible 
tide  of  national  enthusiasm,  was  forced  into  the  narrow 
channels  of  local  fanaticism  ; that  Germany,  instead  of  be- 
ing led  into  an  era  of  social  reconstruction,  saw  itself 
plunged  into  a state  of  confusion,  bordering  upon  anarchy  ; 
and  that  the  enemies  of  reform  found  it  an  easy  matter  to 


l6o  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


quench  the  new  thought  soon  after  it  had  been  kindled. 
Probably  no  event  in  modern  history  has  so  decidedly  re- 
tarded the  progress  of  civilization  as  the  series  of  isolated 
revolutionary  uprisings  and  their  successive  defeats  which 
mark  the  course  of  the  German  Reformation  from  1522  to 
about  1530.  First,  in  1522,  the  landed  gentry  in  a bold 
assault  try  to  overthrow  the  temporal  power  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical magnates  ; this  conspiracy  is  easily  crushed.  Two 
years  later  the  peasantry,  stirred  up  by  Luther’s  proclaim- 
ing the  spiritual  equality  of  all  men,  attempt  to  shake  off 
the  yoke  of  hereditary  bondage  ; this  rebellion  is  ruth- 
lessly suppressed.  About  the  same  time,  the  masses  of  the 
city  population,  intoxicated  by  the  doctrine  of  universal 
priesthood,  are  led  into  a wild  communistic  movement  ; 
this  agitation  is  mercilessly  stamped  out.  And  thus  it  came 
about  that  at  the  very  time  (1530)  when,  in  the  Augsburg 
Confessioriy  the  official  form  of  the  Protestant  belief  was 
definitely  fixed,  Protestantism  had  ceased  to  represent  what 
in  the  beginning  it  had  stood  for,  the  deepest  hopes  and 
highest  aspirations  of  a united  people. 

Luther  himself  ended  by  abandoning  the  ideals  of  his 
early  manhood.  He  had  broken  with  the  old  sacred  tradi- 
tion ; he  had  rejected  all  outward  helps  to  sal- 
vation ; he  had  placed  himself  on  his  own 
ground,  alone  in  all  the  world,  trusting  in  the 
personal  guidance  and  protection  of  God.  As 
a result  of  his  own  teaching  he  now  saw  the  country  trans- 
formed into  a surging  sea,  tossed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  by 
evil  doctrines  and  pernicious  contests.  Had  it,  then,  really 
been  the  voice  of  God  that  called  him  ? or  had  he  lent  his 
ear  to  the  insinuations  of  Satan  ? Persecuted  by  terrible 
visions,  the  very  foundations  of  his  faith  tottering  under 
him,  his  life  appearing  blighted  and  his  work  cursed,  he  sees 
in  his  extremity  only  one  way  of  deliverance.  He  can  only 
answer  these  terrible  questionings  by  a blind  and  implicit 
faith.  He  comes  forth  from  the  struggle,  not  as  he  had 


Luther’s  re- 
turn to  the 
principle  of 
authority. 


THE  ERA  OE  THE  REFORMATION, 


l6l 


entered  it,  strong  in  intellectual  fearlessness,  but  strong  in 
stubborn  adherence  to  a chosen  authority  ; not  any  longer 
as  the  champion  of  reason,  but  as  its  defainer.  Reason 
now  appears  to  him  as  the  root  of  all  evil  ; reason  has  led 
man  astray  from  God  ; reason  is  a light  that  is  only  dark- 
ness.” Without  knowledge  of  the  divine  grace  it  is  ‘‘  a 
poisonous  beast  with  many  dragons’  heads,”  it  is  “ an  ugly 
devil’s  bride,”  it  is  ‘‘  the  all-cruellest  and  most  fatal  enemy 
of  God.”  “ It  is  a quality  of  faith,”  he  says,  “ that  it 
wrings  the  neck  of  reason  and  strangles  the  beast  which 
else  the  whole  world  with  all  creatures  could  not  strangle. 
But  how  ? It  holds  to  God’s  word,  lets  it  be  right  and  true, 
no  matter  how  foolish  and  impossible  it  sounds.”  And 
by  thus  strangling  reason,  we  offer  to  God  the  all-accept- 
ablest  sacrifice  and  service  that  can  ever  be  brought  to 
him.” 

Nothing  is  a surer  evidence  of  moral  greatness  than  the 
courage  of  inconsistency.  Nothing  makes  Luther’s  figure 
more  impressive  than  the  scars  of  this  Titanic  struggle  be- 
tween his  former  and  his  later  self.  Nor  has  it  been  with- 
out noble  fruits  for  humanity.  Out  of  this  very  struggle 
were  born  those  spiritual  battle-songs  of  his, — such  as 
‘‘ Ach  Gott  vom  himmel  sieh  darein,”  Aus  tiefer  not 
schrei  ich  zu  dir,”  “ Ein  feste  burg  ist  unser  Gott,” — the 
power  of  which  will  be  felt  as  long  as  there  is  a human  soul 
longing  for  a sight  of  the  divine.  And  in  this  very  con- 
flict Luther  found  the  inspiration  to  undertake  and  carry 
through  that  colossal  work  through  which  he  has  become 
the  creator  of  the  modern  German  language,  his  translation 


Cf.  his  Exposition  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Galatians  ( Werke  ed. 
Walch  VIII,  2043.  2048),  quoted  by  C.  Beard,  The  Reformation  in  its 
relation  to  Modern  Thought p.  156.  163. — In  the  last  sermon  preached 
by  Luther  in  Wittenberg,  Jan.  17,  1546,  he  says  of  reason  : ‘^Es  ist 
die  hochste  Hure  die  der  Teufel  hat.”  Luthers  Werke  f d.  christl. 
Haus  ed.  Buchwald,  Kawerau  etc.  V,  96. — Selections  from  Luther’s 
lyrics  DNL,  XV.  For  his  language  cf.  Wackernagel,  Gesch,  d,  d, 
LitO  II,  8 £f. 


i62  social  forces  in  german  literature. 

of  the  Bible.  And  yet  how  different  the  intellectual  his- 
tory of  Germany  and  of  the  world  would  have  been  if  the 
man  who  had  given  the  German  people  the  idea  of  univer- 
sal priesthood,  who  had  called  on  them  to  fling  away  the 
form  in  order  to  save  the  substance  of  religion,  who  had 
grounded  the  religious  life  upon  individual  belief  and  indi- 
vidual reason,  had  not  ended  as  the  founder  of  a new  or- 
thodoxy and  a new  absolutism. 

From  this  time  on  the  higher  life  of  Germany  slowly 

sinks,  until  toward  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  it 

reaches  its  lowest  ebb.  Realism  becomes  again. 

The  intellect-  -^^^t  it  had  been  before  the  Reformation  move- 
nal  reaction.  ...... 

ment,  the  dominant  force  in  literary  production  ; 

but  it  is  no  longer  the  youthful  realism  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  full  of  buoyancy  and  hope  ; it  is 
the  realism  of  disappointment  and  resignation.  It  has  no 
message  of  its  own  to  tell,  it  only  restates  what  has  been 
told  before,  it  looks  backward  and  not  forward.  We  shall, 
therefore,  not  enter  here  upon  the  by  no  means  inconsider- 
able literary  output  of  the  second  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. We  shall  not  speak  of  the  mass  of  vulgarity  and 
coarseness  which  flooded  the  popular  prose  romances  of  the 
time — they  are  characterized  sufficiently  by  the  uncouth 
figure  of  Grohianus — ; nor  of  the  revival  which  the  inani- 
ties of  chivalric  love-adventure  found  in  the  tales  of  Ama- 
dis  of  Gaul^’’  ; nor  even  of  the  good-natured  honesty,  the 


2®  The  word  occurs  for  the  first  time  in  Seb.  Brant’s  Narrenschiff 

I : 

Ein  nuer  heilig  heisst  Grobian, 
den  will  ietz  fiiren  iederman. 

Caspar  Scheldt’s  Grobianus  (NddLw.  nr.  34.  35)  appeared  in  1551. 
Cf.  GG.  § 158.  K.  Borinski,  Geschichte  d.deutschen  Litt.  seit  d.  Ausg, 
d.  MA.  p.  15  f.  C.  H.  Herford,  Literary  Relations  of  England  and 
Germany  p.  379  ff. 

GG.  § 160.  Borinski  /.  c.  p.  104  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION,  163 

racy  humoux  and  sturdy  patriotism  displayed  in  the  writings 
of  such  men  as  Jorg  Wickram,^®  Burkard  Waldis/®  Georg 
Rollenhagen,'®  Nicodemus  Frischlin/’  Only  two  men,  who 
under  more  favourable  circumstances  might  have  become 
writers  of  national  influence  and  leaders  in  a new  progres- 
sive movement,  may  be  singled  out  as  the  most  striking 
figures  of  a time  which  had  turned  away  from  its  true  ideal : 
Hans  Sachs  (d.  1576)  and  Johann  Fischart  (d.  1590). 

Hans  Sachs  is  one  of  the  most  lovable^  characters  in 
German  literature.  This  honest  Nlirnberg  burgher,  faith- 
ful in  the  narrow  circle  of  his  handicraft,  and 
at  the  same  time  reaching  out  into  the  wide 
realm  of  thought  and  poetry  ; looking  into  the  world  with 
wondering  childlike  eyes  ; transforming  all  that  he  sees  or 
hears  into  a tale  or  ditty  or  Shrovetide  play  ; restlessly 
working,  and  yet  always  seeming  at  leisure  ; serene,  true- 
hearted, public-spirited  ; a loyal  supporter  of  Luther,  whom 
he  greeted  (1523)  as  the  “Wittenberg  Nightingale,'"  but  un- 
failingly gentle  and  good-natured  even  in  his  polemics — he 
indeed  deserved  to  be  glorified  by  Goethe as  “our  dear 
Master.’'  On  what  terms  of  jocular  intimacy  he  stands 
with  the  figures  of  sacred  history,  not  even  excluding  the 
saints,  Christ,  or  God  the  Father  himself  ! One  day,  he 
tells  us.’®  Saint  Peter,  walking  with  Christ  through  the 
country,  fell  to  complaining  about  the  bad  management  of 


GG,  § 159  The  Rollwagenbuchlin  (ed.  H.  Kurz)  appeared  in  1555. 

GG.  § 157.  The  Esopus  (ed.  Tittmann,  Dichier  d,  16.  Jhdts 
XVI,  XVII.)  appeared  in  1548. 

GG.  § 164.  The  Froschmeuseler  (ed.  Goedeke,  Dichter  d.  16.  Jhdts 
VIII.  IX.)  appeared  in  1595. 

Cf.  D.  F.  Strauss,  Leben  u.  Schriften  d.  Dichters  u,  Philologen  N. 
Frischlin.  A discussion  of  the  Protestant  and  Catholic  school-drama 
in  Janssen^s  Gesch.  d.  deutschen  Volkes  seit  d.  Ausg.  d.  MA.  VII,  106 
ff.  Cf.  Herford  l.c.  74  ff.  The  Julius  Redivivus  appeared  in  1585. 

Hans  Sachsens  poetischt  Sendungy  Werke  Hempel  I,  113.  A just 
and  discriminating  discussion  of  H.  Sachs  as  a poet  in  GG.  § 154. 

Sand  Peter  mit  d.  Geiss,  Deutsche  Dichter  d.  16.  Jhdts  V,  144  ff. 


164  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  world,  how  the  evil  prevaileth  and  the  just  suffereth 
without  the  Lord’s  stirring  a finger.  Christ  answered  : If 

you  thinks  Peter,  you  can  do  better  than  I,  here  ! take  my 
staff  and  command,  have  full  power  to  curse  or  to  bless,  to 
bring  on  wind,  rain,  or  sunshine,  to  punish  or  to  reward, 
and  try  to  rule  the  world  just  for  a day.”  Peter  was  over- 
joyed and  felt  very  lordly  in  his  new  omnipotence.  Mean- 
while an  old  woman  came  along,  driving  her  goat  to  pasture 
and  commending  it  to  the  protection  of  God.  Peter,  to 
take  care  of  the  animal,  followed  it  into  the  pasture ; and 
as  it  was  an  unruly  and  roving  beast,  he  had  to  follow  it 
over  stock  and  stone,  through  underbrush  and  thicket,  until 
late  in  the  evening  he  came  home,  tired  out  and  disgusted. 
‘Well,  Peter/'  said  the  Lord,  laughing,  “should  you  like  to 
rule  the  world  for  another  day  ? ' 

In  another  scene  we  are  led  back  to  the  time  when 
Adam  and  Eve,  banished  from  paradise,  earn  their  bread  as 
honest  farmers.  They  have  a large  family  of  children,  some 
of  them  beautiful,  clever,  and  good,  some  of  them  ugly,  awk- 
ward, and  rude.  The  beautiful  ones  Eve  brings  up  with 
all  motherly  care,  the  ugly  ones  she  lets  run  about  as  they 
please.  One  day  God  the  Father  sent  word  by  an  angel  that 
he  would  call  on  Adam  and  Eve  to  see  how  they  were  get- 
ting along.  When  Eve  heard  this,  she  rejoiced  greatly  and 
put  the  whole  house  in  good  order.  She  scrubbed  the 
floor,  strewed  sweet-scented  grasses  about,  and  washed  and 
combed  and  dressed  her  children,  that  is,  the  beautiful  chil- 
dren ; the  ugly  ones  she  hid  in  dark  corners,  in  the  stable, 
behind  the  hearth,  some  of  them  even  in  the  oven.  When 
the  Lord  came,  the  children  stood  there  in  a row  neatly 
dressed  and  well  behaved,  and  gave  their  hands  to  him 
as  he  stepped  up  to  them,  and  very  nicely  said  the  Lord’s 


Cf.  Die  ungleichen  Kinder  Eve  or  Wie  Gott  der  Herr  Adam  u.  Eva 
ihre  Kinder  segnet,  DNL.  XX,  i,  88  f.  2yp,  254.  Deutsche  Dichter 
d.  it.JhdtsYl,  173  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  1 65 

prayer  when  he  asked  them  whether  they  knew  it.  And 
the  Lord  was  pleased  and  laid  his  hand  on  each  child’s 
head,  saying  : “ Thou  shalt  be  a king,  thou  a knight,  thou  a 
burgomaster,  thou  a rich  merchant,”  and  so  on  ; and  he 
blessed  them  all.  Then  Eve  took  heart  and  went  and  got 
the  ugly  children  out  of  their  hiding-places,  and  brought 
them  before  God  that  he  might  bless  them  also.  And  the 
Lord  could  not  help  laughing  when  he  saw  this  unkempt 
and  doubtful-looking  crowd  before  him  ; but  he  had  pity 
on  them  and  blessed  them  each,  saying  : Thou  shalt  be  a 

shoemaker,  thou  a weaver,  thou  a shepherd,  thou  a farmer,” 
and  so  forth.  And  when  Eve  protested  that  these  callings 
were  too  humble,  God  showed  her  how  all  callings  were 
necessary  and  equally  important.  For,  if  all  men  were 
kings  and  princes,  burgomasters  and  councillors,  who  should 
till  the  soil  or  build  houses  or  provide  for  food  and  cloth- 
ing ? And  if  there  were  no  government,  who  would  main- 
tain the  public  peace  } And  Adam  and  Eve  resolved 
henceforth  to  bring  up  all  their  children  with  equal  care, 
because  they  knew  they  were  all  destined  to  work  for  the 
common  good  of  man. 

These  are  examples  of  Hans  Sachs’s  art  in  treating  legen- 
dary themes.  It  would  be  easy  to  show  how  the  same 
simple  humour,  the  same  serene  irony  pervades 
his  representations  of  actual  life.  The  travel-  Fis  mediaBval- 
ling  student  cheating  the  peasant  woman  out  of 
her  husband’s  money  ; the  robber  knight  lying  in  ambush 
for  the  rich  prelate^®  ; the  gypsy  telling  peasant  girls  their 
fortunes  ; the  husband  bringing  his  jealous  wife  back  to 
her  senses i the  landsknecht,  the  priest,  the  peasant,  the 

Cf.  Der  fahrende  Schuler  im  Paradies,  Fastnachtspiele  ed.  Goetze 
{NddLw,  nr.  26  ff.)  nr.  22. — A discussion  of  the  more  prominent  of 
the  Fastnachtspiele  in  R.  Gen6e,  Hans  Sachs  u,  s,  Zeit p.  335, 

Cf.  Das  Wildbad  1.  c.  nr.  27. 

Cf.  Die  Rockenstube  1.  c.  nr.  10. 

Cf.  Das  heiss  Fisen,  1.  c.  nr.  38. 


l66  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


artisan,  the  beggar  vying  with  each  other  in  lamenting  over 
the  hard  times  — what  a wealth  of  shrewd  observation  and 
solid  common-sense  these  scenes,  and  many  others  like 
them,  contain  ! And  yet,  how  can  all  this  compensate  us 
for  the  absence  in  Hans  Sachs  of  any  large  conception  of 
the  great  revolution  which  the  first  decades  of  the  century 
had  attempted  ? In  reading  him  we  have  the  impression 
that  all  the  world-moving  thoughts  of  the  early  Reforma- 
tion period  had  swept  over  the  German  people  without 
touching  it.  Although  he  died  thirty  years  after  Luther, 
he  was  at  heart  a mediaeval  man.  Had  he  felt  the  pulse  of 
modern  life,  as  Hutten  and  his  friends  felt  it,  he  might 
have  become  the  creator  of  the  modern  German  drama. 
In  reality  he  was  the  last,  and  greatest,  of  the  Mastersingers. 
He  was  in  literature  what  Lucas  Cranach,  his  contempo- 
rary, was  in  art:  a master  in  the  minute.  For  the  lofty 
conceptions  and  majestic  proportions  of  a Diirer  the  age 
had  no  longer  any  room. 

Cf.  Die  fiinf  elenden  Wanderer^  /.  c,  nr,  13. — An  admirable 
self-characterization  of  H.  Sachs  is  found  in  the  preface  to  the 
second  volume  of  his  poems  (1560),  quoted  in  Liitzelberger-From- 
mann,  Hans  Sachs y s,  Leben  u,  s.  Dichtung  p.  34  f.  : **Mein  beger, 
gutherziger,  freundtlicher  Leser,  ist,  Du  wdllest  diss  ander  Buch 
meiner  Gedicht  annemen  fiir  ein  gemeines,  offens  Lustgartlein, 
so  an  offner  Strassen  steht  fiir  den  gemeinen  Mann,  darinn  man 
nit  allein  findet  etliche  siiss  fruchttragende  B^umlein  zur  Speyss 
der  gesunden,  sondern  Wurtz  und  Kraut,  so  resz  und  pitter  sindt, 
zu  artzney,  die  krancken  gemiiter  zu  purgieren  und  die  bdsen 
Feuchtigkeit  der  Faster  ausszutreiben.  Dergleich  findt  man  darin 
wolriechende  Feyel,  Rosen,  und  Lyiien,  auss  den  man  krefftige 
Wasser,  dl  und  S^fft  distilieren  und  bereyten  mag,  die  abkrefftigen 
und  schwachen  gemiiter,  so  bekiimmert  und  abkrefftig  sind,  zu  stercken 
und  wider  auffzurichten  : auch  entlich  mancherley  schlechte  Gewechs 
und  Feldpliimlein,  als  Klee,  Distel  und  Korenpliimlein,  doch  mit 
schdnen,  lieblichen  Farben,  die  schwermiitigen,  Melancolischen  ge- 
miiter frdlich  und  leichtsinnig  zu  machen.  Bin  also  guter,  trdstlicher 
Hoffnung,  das  es  on  nutz  nit  abgen  werdt.’" — Cf.  also  Puschmann’s 
dream,  ib.  p,  38. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  1 6/ 

Johann  Fischart,  also,  was  a man  of  truly  remarkable 
qualities.  He  was  a stanch  upholder  of  Lutheran  princi- 
ples, a friend  of  the  Hugfuenots,  an  inveterate 

^ o j Pi'qpliarf 

hater  of  the  Jesuits  and  of  Philip  II.,  whose  de- 
feat at  the  hands  of  the  English  he  commemorated  in  high- 
flown  verse.  He  was  a keen  observer  of  the  life  around 
him.  Probably  nowhere  does  the  fundamental  joyousness 
of  his  nature  manifest  itself  so  finely  as  in  his  poetic  glori- 
fication of  a piece  of  juvenile  sport  by  whiph  in  1576  some 
citizens  of  Zurich  distinguished  themselves,  rowing  in  one 
day  from  Zurich  to  Strassburg.  This  event  Fischart  cele- 
brates, in  his  Gluckhafft  SchiffJ’^  as  a feat  of  manly  vigour 
and  sturdy  citizenship.  Of  Xerxes,  he  says,  we  hear  that 
he  once  tried  to  chain  the  sea,  and  ordered  it  to  be  beaten  ; 
the  Venetians  every  year  have  a ring  thrown  into  the  Adri- 
atic in  order  to  wed  it  to  themselves.  But  that  is  not  the 
way  to  subdue  the  elements — 

Welchs  ist  dieselb?  Nemlich  nur  die 

Welche  wir  han  erfaren  hie 

Das  neulich  sie  gebrauchet  hat 

Die  Jung  Mannschaft  auss  Ziirch  der  Statt, 

Das  ist,  hantfest  Arbeitsamkeyt 
Und  stanthafft  Unverdrossenheit 
Dutch  rudern,  rimen,  stosen,  schalten, 

Ungeacht  Miih  ernsthafft  anhalten, 

Nich  schewen  Hiz,  Schweis,  Gfadigkeit, 

Noch  der  Wasser  Ungstiimmigkeit, 

Nicht  erschrecken  ab  Wirbeln,  Wallen, 

Sender  sich  hertzhafft  gegenstellen, 
le  meh  die  Flliss  laut  rauschend  trutzen, 
le  kraftiger  hinwider  stutzen. 

And  now  the  poet  accompanies  the  sturdy  crew  on  their 
toilsome  yet  so  delightful  voyage.  How  they  embark  at 


DNL,  XVIII,  I,  p.  131  ft. — An  excellent  account  of  Fischart's 
literary  character  in  Goedeke,  Elf  Bucher  deutscher  Dichtung  I,  156  ff. 
A comprehensive  monograph  on  Fischart  is  promised  by  Adolf  Hauffen. 


l68  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

early  dawn  amid  the  concourse  of  a cheering  populace  ; 
how  the  boat  like  a water-bird  shoots  joyfully  along  ; how 
the  Limmat  and  Aare  are  soon  left  behind ; how  the 
Rhinestream,  when  he  sees  them  approaching,  wells  up  with 
joy,  and  bids  them  speed  on  ; how  the  water  dances  about 
the  oars  ; how  even  the  banks  of  the  river  respond  with 
merry  sound  to  the  greeting  of  the  waves  washing  to  the 
shore  ; how  in  the  early  morning  they  fly  past  Basel, 
cheered  on  by  the  applause  of  a multitude  filling  the  dock- 
yards and  bridges  ; how  the  Sun,  seeing  that  even  his  noon- 
day arrows  have  no  effect  upon  the  brave  boatsmen,  has 
fresh  horses  hitched  to  his  chariot  and  tries  to  outstrip  them 
in  the  race  ; and  how  at  last,  shortly  after  sunset,  they 
reach  Strassburg,  welcomed  by  beat  of  drum  and  sound  of 
trumpets, — all  this  is  told  in  a manner  worthy  of  a great  poet. 

As  a satirist  and  pamphleteer,  also,  Fischart  shows  the 
fibre  of  true  genius.  His  Ehezuchtbilchlein  (1578),  one  of  the 
most  wholesome  books  on  marriage  ever  written;  his  Bienen- 
korb  des  heiligen  Romischen  Immenschwarms  (1579),  a violent 
satire  of  popery;  his  Jesuiterhiltlein  (1580),^^  a' formidable 
arraignment  of  Jesuitic  doctrines  ; his  paraphrase  of  Rabe- 
lais’s Gargantua  (1575),  are  marvels  of  strong,  virile,  sonorous 
diction,  profoundly  original  and  inexhaustible  in  its  vocab- 
ulary. There  is  an  exuberance  and  opulence  in  his  style 
that  reminds  one  of  the  superabundant  wealth  of  German 
Renaissance  architecture,  the  climax  of  which  did  indeed 
coincide  with  the  best  years  of  his  manhood.  And  there 
is  an  invincible  rectitude  of  purpose,  a fulness  of  human 
understanding,  a keenness  of  wit,  and  a raciness  of  satire  in 
his  lines,  which  place  him  as  a moral  teacher  directly  by 
the  side  of  Luther  and  the  Humanists. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  who  can  help  feeling  that  even 
Fischart  is  the  representative  of  a time  of  decay?  He  en- 


The  Ehezuchtbilchlein  DNL.  XVIII,  3,  p.  115  ff.  The  Jesuiter^ 
hiitlein  ib.  i,  /.  227  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  1 69 


tirely  lacks  that  mastery  over  himself  which  is  indispensa- 
ble to  the  true  artist.  He  does  not  know  how  to  select; 
he  wants  to  say  all;  he  bewilders  us  with  His  lack  of 
a mass  of  detail  ; hardly  ever  does  he  afford  ^oim, 
unalloyed  and  simple  enjoyment.  It  is  instructive  to  note 
the  difference  between  the  original  Garganfua  of  Rabelais 
and  Fischart’s  imitation,  the  monstrous  title  of  which^’* 
gives  a true  index  of  its  character.  Where  Rabelais 
is  grotesque,  Fischart  is  absurd.  Where  Rabelais  draws 
with  a pencil,  Fischart  paints  with  a broom.  Where  the 
Frenchman  has  one  illustration,  the  German  has  ten.^^  A 
single  book  of  the  original  is  in  the  copy  puffed  up  into  a 
whole  volume.  And  thus,  with  all  its  wealth  of  satire  and 
invective,  this  novel  has  come  to  be  a striking  example  of 
realism  breaking  down  under  its  own  weight. 

Had  Fischart  lived  in  an  age  of  new  ideas  his  genius 
would  have  unfolded  and  taken  wings.  Alas  for  us  that  his 
lot  was  cast  in  the  time  that  followed  the  failure  of  the 
religious  Reformation  ! Compelled  to  witness  the  decline 
of  national  greatness  and  independence;  placed  in  a public 


The  title  of  Rabelais’s  work  is  : La  vie  ires  horrificque  du  Grand 
Gargantua  pere  de  Pantagruel ; livre  plein  de  Pantagruelisme.  Of  this 
Fischart  makes  the  following:  Affentheurlich  Naupengeheurliche 
Geschichtklitterung  von  Thaten  und  Rhaten  der  vor  kurtzen  langen  und 
je  weilen  Vollenwolbeschreiten  Helden  und  Herren  Grandgoschier  Gorgel 
lantua  und  dess  dess  Eiteldurstlichen  Durchdurstlechtigen  Fiirsten  Pan- 
tagruel von  Dursiwelten^  Konigen  in  Utopien^  Jederwelt  Nullatenenten 
und  i\ienenreichy  Soldan  der  Neuen  Kannarien^  Fdumlappen,  Dipsoder, 
Durst  ling  und  Oudissen  Inseln  : auch  grossfiirsten  im  Finster  stall  und 
Nubel  Nibel  Nebelland,  Erbvdgt  auf  Nichllburg^  U7td  Niderherren  zu 
Nullibingen^  Nullenstein  und  Niergendheyniy  etc.  NddLw.  nr.  65, 
p.  I. 

Compare  Geschichtklitterung  c.  8 (/.  c.  p.  123  ff.)  with  Gargantua 
I,  5 {CEuvres  de  Rabelais  ed.  P.  Favre  I,/.  52  ff.).  A detailed  com- 
parison of  the  two  works  in  L.  Ganghofer,  Johann  Fischart  u.  s.  Ver- 
deutschung  des  Rabelais  p.  g ft. , who  however  is  prejudiced  in  favour 
of  Fischart. 


I/O  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


life  that  afforded  room  only  for  theological  squabbles  and 
party  hatred  ; hearing  in  the  distance  the  approaching 
thunder  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War/^  he  lost  the  native  elas- 
ticity of  his  soul.  In  one  of  his  poems^^  he  compares  Ger- 
many to  a young  captured  eagle  : his  ancestors  lived  as 
kings  of  the  air  in  the  free  mountain  clefts,  but  he  sits 
drearily  chained  to  his  perch  and  must  catch  what  his 
master  wills.  This  image  may  be  applied  to  Fischart  him- 
self. He,  too,  was  born  to  soar  into  the  free  air  of  the 
ideal ; he,  too,  was  condemned  to  flutter  wearily  over  the 
sterile  ground  of  actuality. 

And  here  we  take  leave  of  this  wonderful  and  incompre- 
hensible sixteenth  century.  If  it  were  possible  to  sum  up 
the  experience  of  several  generations  in  the  life 
The  I’anst-  ^ single  individual,  we  should  say  : the  six- 

teenth  century  is  like  that  mysterious,  heroic 
figure,  which  owed  its  legendary  existence  to  this  very  age 
of  reaction  against  the  freedom  of  the  early  Reformation, 
the  ^‘famous  necromancer  " Dr.  Johann  Faust.  The  six- 
teenth century,  like  the  legendary  Faust,  had  thrown  away 
the  wisdom  of  former  ages,  like  him  it  had  tried  to  open  a 
new  path  towards  the  higher  realms  of  life,  like  him  it  found 
itself  powerless  to  work  out  its  own  salvation.  The  spirit 
of  the  Faust-book  of  1587  is  altogether  theological.  Faust 
is  represented  as  a godless  rebel,  his  pact  with  the  devil  is 
devoid  of  higher  motives,  his  death  is  surrounded  by  all 
the  horrors  of  hell.  The  book  transports  us  into  a world  in 


Cf.  the  prophecy  in  ^r.  57  of  the  Geschichtklitterung^  1.  c.  p,  453  ff. 

Ernst  1.  Ermahnung  an  d,  lieben  Teutschen  ; Goedeke,  Elf  Bucher 
deutscher  Dichtung  I,  175. 

NddLw.  nr,  7 and  8.  Cf.  Erich  Schmidt,  Charakieristiken  p,  i 
ff. — It  is  worthy  of  note  that  in  the  very  decades  in  which  the  Faust- 
legend  spread  throughout  Germany  and  beyond,  Johann  Kepler,  the 
intellectual  successor  of  Copernicus,  had  to  fight  his  way  against  both 
Lutheran  and  Jesuit  fanaticism.  Cf.  Allg,  D,  Biogr,  XV,  603  ff* 


THE  ERA  OF  THE  REFORMAT/OH, 


171 


which  the  Copernican  system  has  no  place  ; it  is  a warning 
against  free  thought  and  human  aspiration  ; it  is  the  auto- 
biography of  an  age  which  has  lost  faith  in  itself. 

Let  us  be  thankful  that  the  central  truth,  which,  in  spite 
of  all  transient  veiling,  the  era  of  the  Reformation  stood  for, 
has  at  last  prevailed.  What  the  men  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury were  not  able  to  accomplish  has  been  fulfilled  in  our 
own  time.  The  classic  poets  and  thinkers  of  the  eighteenth 
century  took  up  the  work  where  Luther  and  his  contem- 
poraries had  left  it,  and  led  us  into  that  realm  of  universal 
brotherhood  and  humanity  which  the  great  religious  re- 
former saw  from  afar,  but  was  not  allowed  to  enter. 


CHAPTER  VL 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  AND 
THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  MODERN  LIFE. 

(From  the  Beginning  of  the  Seventeenth  to  the  Middle  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century.) 

I.  The  Recovery  from  the  Thirty  Years*  War. 

If  it  is  true  that  for  nations  as  well  as  individuals  every 
moment  of  existence  is  at  once  a decay  and  a growth,  this 
is  pre-eminently  true  of  the  condition  of  the 

Elements  of  German  people  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
modern  life  in  ^ ^ ^ ^ 

seventeenth-  When  the  Thirty  Years’  War  had  ended  by 

century  reducing  the  German  empire  to  its  atoms,  no 
absolutism!  . . ... 

hope  of  religious  or  political  liberty  seemed  to 

be  left.  Nowhere  and  at  no  period  in  modern  history 
has  despotism  assumed  such  an  absurd  and  hideous  form 
as  in  the  numberless  petty  principalities  which  at  the 
time  of  the  peace  of  Westphalia  (1648)  were  the  last  rem- 
nants of  what  had  been  the  dominant  power  of  Europe. 
Municipal  privileges  had  been  trampled  down  ; not  a trace 
of  rural  autonomy  remained  ; Luther’s  principle  of  religious 
self-determination  had  been  converted  into  an  absolute 
power  of  the  princes  to  determine  the  religious  belief  of 
their  subjects.  As  an  embodiment  of  national  traditions 
and  national  ideals  Germany  was  dead. 

Out  of  the  midst  of  this  utter  desolation  modern  German 
life  has  sprung.  From  under  the  ruins  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire  grew  up  that  state  which,  through  unflinching  ad- 
herence to  the  principle  of  public  welfare  and  under  the 
stern  discipline  of  a dynasty  unrivalled  in  shrewdness, 

173 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  1 73 


tenacity  of  purpose,  and  devotion  to  duty,  finally  became 
the  foremost  factor  in  the  upbuilding  of  a new,  united  Ger- 
many. From  the  horrors  of  religious  fanaticism  and  perse- 
cution, which  have  made  the  era  of  Ferdinand  II.  and 
Louis  XIV.  an  abomination  to  thinking  men,  came  forth 
that  movement  for  religious  toleration  which  has  now  per- 
meated the  whole  atmosphere  of  higher  culture.  From  the 
dead  formalism  and  shallow  correctness  which  in  the  first 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century  took  the  place- of  the  unre- 
strained exuberance  of  Fischart  and  his  contemporaries, 
literature,  slowly  but  steadily,  rose  to  a recognition  of  its 
eternal  tasks,  until  at  last  it  acquired  that  lofty  freedom  and 
transcendent  beauty  which  have  made  the  great  German 
poets  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  noblest  spiritual  leaders 
of  the  modern  world. 

Modest,  indeed,  and  laborious  were  the  beginnings  of  this 
upward  course.  He  would  have  preached  to  unbelieving 
ears  who,  about  the  year  1650,  should  have  pro-  The  political 
phesied  that  the  reorganization  and  future  great-  reconstruc- 
ness  of  the  German  state  was  to  be  wrought  out  rise  of  Prus- 
under  the  leadership  of  what  was  then  the  little  sia. 
electorate  of  Brandenburg.  In  no  part  of  the  empire  had 
the  ravages  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War  been  more  disastrous. 
Berlin,  the  capital,  had  only  300  citizens  left  ; the  popula- 
tion of  the  whole  state  amounted  to  probably  less  than  a 
million  inhabitants.  Life  to  most  of  them  was  only  a 
struggle  to  maintain  a bare,  joyless  existence.  Nor  was 
the  governmental  absolutism  less  harsh  here  than  anywhere 
else.  There  have  been  no  more  unrelenting  autocrats  than 
the  Hohenzollern  princes.  With  an  iron  hand  the  Great 
Elector  (1640-88)  put  down  whatever  of  municipal  freedom 
there  was  left  within  his  dominions  ; with  the  brutality  of  a 
barbarian  his  grandson,  Frederick  William  I.  (1713-40), 
made  sport  of  citizens’  rights  in  order  to  exalt  his  army. 
It  is  indeed  no  wonder  that  the  name  of  Prussia  was  an 
object  of  hatred  and  fear  all  over  Germany.  And  yet,  here 


174  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


lay  the  origins  of  modern  constitutional  life/  The  old  em- 
pire with  its  unwieldy  mass  of  feeble  sovereignties  was  not 
only,  as  Pufendorf,  the  greatest  publicist  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  declared,  a monster  ; it  was  a dying  monster,  too. 
If  there  was  to  be  any  form  of  a German  state  hereafter, 
what  was  left  but  for  some  healthy  limb  of  this  monster  to 
cut  loose  from  the  dying  body,  and  to  try  life  at  its  own 
peril  ? This  it  is  what  the  Prussian  monarchy  undertook 
to  do;  it  could  not  have  succeeded  if  it  had  not  begun  by 
brushing  away  the  remnants  of  feudal  exemption  within  its 
borders,  by  centralizing  its  own  forces,  by  subordinating  all 
class  distinctions  and  privileges  to  the  one  principle  of  pub- 
lic usefulness.  Public  service  has  always  been  proclaimed 
by  the  Prussian  kings  as  the  fundamental  obligation  laid 
upon  them  by  their  hereditary  dignity,  and  in  all  decisive 
moments  of  its  history  the  Prussian  people  has  proved  its 
loyalty  to  this  principle.  It  is  this  that  has  made  the  Prus- 
sia of  to-day. 

The  intellectual  reconstruction,  also,  like  the  political, 
had  to  be  made  from  the  very  foundations.  Here,  too,  an 
The  intellec  Sterile  dogmatism  had  forced  itself  into 

tuaJ  recoil-  authority.  Witch-burning  and  inquisition  had 
striiction.  undermined  the  very  foundations  of  a true  relig- 
ious life.  Both  the  Protestant  and  the  Catholic  church 
had  become  machines  as  lifeless  and  out  of  date  as  the 
Holy  Roman  Empire  itselT  If  it  had  not  been  for  a small 
band  of  independent  men  who,  in  the  midst  of  this  uni- 


^ Cf.  for  this  and  the  following : H.  v.  Zwiedineck-Siidenhorst, 
Deutsche  Gesch,  i.  Zeitraum  d.  Griindg  d,  preuss.  Konigtums  I,  32  ff. 
K.  F.  Hanser,  Deutschl,  nach  d,  y:>jdhr,  Kriege  p.  117  ff.  Von 
Inama-Sternegg,  D.  volkswirthschaftl.  Folgen  d,  2Djdhr.  Krieges^ 
Hist.  Tasckenb.  IV,  5,  i ff.  K.  Biedermann,  Deutschlands  triibste 
Zeit,  p,  18  ff.  Levy-Bruhl,  V Allemagne  depuis  Leibniz,  p.  8 ff. — Pufen- 
dorf's  remark  in  the  pseudon.  pamphlet  Severini  de  Monzambano  De 
statu  imp.  Germ.,  Genev.  1667,  VI,  9:  Nihil  aliud  ergo  restat  quam 
ut  dicamus,  Germaniam  esse  irregular©  aliquod  corpus  et  monstro 
simile. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  1 75 


versal  gloom,  kept  alive  the  spark  of  individual  thought  and 
feeling,  the  cause  of  spiritual  culture  might  forever  have 
been  lost.  Two  movements,  both  of  them  taking  up  the 
task  of  the  religious  Reformation  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
both  of  them  pointing  forward  to  the  victory  of  intellectual 
freedom  in  the  eighteenth,  were  the  outcome  of  this  indi- 
vidualistic revival  : Pietism  and  Rationalism. 

The  Pietistic  movement  is  bound  up  with  the  names  of 
Jacob  Spener  (1635-1705)  and  August  Hermayin  Francke 
(1663-1727).  About  the  same  time,  when  in 
France  the  Jansenists  protested  against  the  Spener  and 
rigid  exclusiveness  of  Jesuitic  morality,  when  I’^ancke. 
William  Penn  and  his  friends  carried  the  gospel  of  the 
brotherhood  of  Christ  to  the  banks  of  the  Delaware,  these 
men  and  their  disciples  tried  to  quicken  religious  feeling 
in  Protestant  Germany.^  Their  ideas  were  not  new.  They 
only  repeated  what  Luther  had  taught  : the  inanity  of 
ecclesiastical  formalism,  the  need  of  inner  regeneration, 
the  priesthood  of  all  believers.  They  entirely  lacked  the 
heroic  stature  of  the  men  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Their 
efforts  were  not  directed  toward  arousing  the  people  as  a 


* It  seems  practically  unknown  that  the  Pietistic  movement,  and 
especially  the  great  philanthropic  and  educational  enterprises  of 
Francke,  aroused  the  keenest  interest  in  one  of  the  most  reniarkable 
Americans  of  his  time:  Cotton  Mather.  For  several  years  Mather 
maintained  a correspondence  both  with  Francke  himself  and  with  his 
followers  in  England  ; and  in  1715,  avowedly  on  the  basis  of  informa- 
tion acquired  in  this  manner,  he  published  a little  pamphlet  entitled 
Nuncia  Bona  e Terra  Longinqua  : A Brief  Account  of  Some  Good  and 
Great  Things  A doing  for  the  Kingdom  of  God  in  the  Midst  of  E.ttr  ope 
(Boston,  S.  Gerrish),  in  which  he  gave  a succinct  but  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  the  work  done  at  the  famous  orphan-asylum  and  the  other 
institutions  founded  by  Francke  at  Halle.  Of  the  spirit  which  per- 
vades this  description  the  following  words  are  an  index  (/.  g) : “The 
World  begins  to  feel  a Warmth  from  the  Fire  of  God  which  thus 
flames  in  the  Heart  of  Germany,  beginning  to  extend  into  many 
Regions  ; the  whole  World  will  ere  long  be  sensible  of  it ! ” 


176  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


whole  ; they  were  content  to  save  individual  souls,  and  to 
gather  about  them  the  devout  and  the  lowly.  There  is  a 
touch  of  self-complacent  sentimentality  in  them  which, 
when  the  movement  had  gained  ground  and  become  out- 
wardly successful,  soon  turned  into  a new  form  of  orthodox 
conventionalism.  But  with  all  these  shortcomings,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  upon  a count^jy  blighted  by  the  drought 
of  dogmatic  dissensions  the  Pietistic  message  of  love  and 
godliness  fell  like  rain  from  heaven.  Without  it  the  seed 
of  religious  toleration,  which  was  sown  by  the  Rationalistic 
philosophy,  would  have  found  a less  susceptible  soil. 

German  Rationalism  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries  was  a part  of  that  larger  movement  which  in 
England  began  with  Bacon,  in  France  with 
Descartes.  It  was  an  attempt  to  carry  out  in 
a systematic  manner,  and  with  the  help  of  natural 
science,  what  the  Humanists  had  undertaken  in  a popular 
way  and  from  the  literary  point  of  view, — a critical  exam- 
ination of  the  outer  and  the  inner  world  before  the  supreme 
tribunal  of  reason.  In  England,  and  later  on  in  France, 
this  inquiry  led  to  a view  of  life  which  is  best  characterized 
by  Locke’s  basing  all  knowledge  upon  sense  impressions,  by 
Hume’s  dissecting  the  idea  of  causation,  and  by  the  moral 
and  intellectual  scepticism  of  Bayle,  Voltaire,  and  the  En- 
cyclopaedists. In  Germany,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
sprang  from  it  the  optimistic  idealism  of  Leibniz  (1646- 
1716),  which,  systematized  by  Wolft  (1679-1754),  and  pop- 
ularized by  a host  of  minor  philosophers,  was  to  be  the 


® A more  practical  turn  this  movement  took  in  the  radical  utilitari- 
anism of  Christian  Thomasius  (1655-1728),  the  founder  of  the  first 
German  literary  periodical  in  German  (the  so-called  Monatsgesprdche^ 
since  1688),  the  untiring  advocate  of  popular  speech  and  common- 
sense  even  in  matters  pertaining  to  scholarly  research  {Discourse 
welcher  Gestalt  man  denen  Fra^izosen  im  gemeinen  Leben  u.  Wandel 
nachahmen  soli,  1687).  Cf.  J.  Minor,  Chr,  Thomasius,  Vierteljahrschr^ 
f,  Littgesch.  I,  i ff. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  177 

prevailing  form  of  thought  in  the  German  universities  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  While  Descartes,  Locke,  and  even 
Spinoza  look  at  the  world  as  a huge  mechanism  in  which 
there  is  little  room  left  for  spontaneous  activity  and  self- 
assertion,  Leibniz  considers  it  as  an  aggregate  of  an  infinite 
multitude  of  independent  intellectual  forces.  There  is 
mind  in  everything.  The  body  is  nothing  but  mind  con- 
tracted into  a form : Omne  corpus  est  mens  momen- 

tanea.”^  Between  plant,  animal,  and  man  there  is  a differ- 
ence of  degree  only,  not  of  quality.  The  whole  world  is 
engaged  in  a process  of  continual  change,  transition,  per- 
fection. There  is  an  unbroken  line  of  development  from 
the  sleeping  life  of  a seed  to  the  free  consciousness  of  a 
full-grown  man  ; from  the  narrow,  gloomy  egotism  of  the 
savage  to  the  broad,  enlightened  charity  of  the  sage.  God 
is  the  supreme  wisdom  and  the  supreme  love.  From  an 
infinite  number  of  possible  worlds  he  has  chosen  the  world 
that  is  as  the  best.  He  has  created  it,  and  is  therefore  out- 
side of  it,  but  he  has  constituted  it  in  such  a manner  that 
it  needs  no  guidance  except  through  its  own  intrinsic  laws. 
He  has  so  arranged  it  that  all  individual  forces  work  to- 
gether in  even  measure  and  for  a common  end,  that  evil 
itself  is  only  a less  perfect  good.  An  admiring  insight  into 
this  harmony  of  the  universe  is  man's  highest  happiness  and 
virtue.  It  is  happiness,  because  it  gives  us  trust  in  the  rea- 
sonableness of  things,  and  makes  us  accept  all  that  may 
befall  us,  pain  no  less  than  pleasure,  as  the  dispensation  of 
a divine  Providence.  It  is  virtue,  because  it  helps  us  to 
overcome  all  littleness,  puts  before  us  the  ideal  of  a com- 
plete existence,  and  teaches  us,  through  self-perfection,  to 
take  part  in  the  betterment  of  the  race. 

It  is  hard  to  overestimate  the  services  which  Leibniz  has 
rendered  to  modern  culture.  He  stands  midway  between 
Luther  and  Goethe.  He  first  reduced  to  philosophic  reasoning 


^ Cf.  E.  Zeller,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Philosophie p,  89. 


178  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  individualistic  view  of  the  universe  which  had  been  at 
the  bottom  of  the  Reformation  movement,  and  which  was  to 
find  its  fullest  expression  in  the  classic  epoch  of  eighteenth- 
century  literature.  In  a time  of  national  degradation  and 
misery,  his  philosophy  offered  shelter  to  the  higher  life,  and 
kept  awake  the  hope  of  an  ultimate  resurrection  of  the 
German  people. 

2.  Pseudo-classicism; 

We  have  considered  some  of  the  political  and  intellectual 
tendencies  which  were  destined  ultimately  to  break  up  the 
absolutism  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Were  similar  forces 
at  work  in  the  literature  of  the  period  ? 

Here,  no  less  than  in  all  other  domains  of  life,  the  lux- 
urious freedom  of  the  sixteenth  century  had  since  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  been  superseded 
Absolutism  m absolutism  ot  narrow  conventionalities. 

All  the  poems,  dramas,  satires,  pamphlets, 
which  we  thus  far  have  been  considering,  were  written 
because  their  authors  had  something  to  say,  because  they 
had  a mission  to  fulfill,  because  they  could  not  help 
giving  utterance  to  thoughts,  longings,  passions  which 
came  from  and  flowed  back  to  the  national  heart.  It  was 
reserved  for  the  seventeenth  and  the  first  part  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  to  produce  a literature  which  was  completely 
out  of  touch  with  national  feeling,  which  had  not  a single 
idea  to  express,  which  existed  solely  for  the  purpose  of  put- 
ting together  high-sounding  words, — a meaningless  pastime 
for  impotent  and  arbitrary  princelings,  idle  courtiers,  and 
learned  pedants.  Here  again  Germany  stood  not  alone. 
Just  as  the  political  and  social  life  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury all  over  Europe  was  hemmed  in  by  the  prejudices 
and  assumptions  of  a self-sufficient,  frivolous,  and  despotic 
aristocracy,  so  European  literature  during  this  period  was 
held  in  the  bondage  of  a set  of  arbitrary  rules  and  dictates, 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  179 


which,  strangely  enough,  had  been  derived  from  the  very 
same  source — the  great  writers  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome — from  which  during  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies had  sprung  the  freedom  and  fervour  of  the  Renais- 
sance. But  just  as  the  political  despotism  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  in  no  country  of  Europe  was  so  completely 
deprived  of  even  the  last  remnant  of  dignity  and  self-re- 
spect as  in  Germany,  so,  also,  did  pseudo-classic  literature  in 
no  other  country  reach  the  same  depth  of  Contemptible- 
ness and  absurdity  as  here. 

Two  men  who  were  the  dictators  of  literary  taste  in  Ger- 
many, the  one  during  the  larger  part  of  the  seventeenth, 
the  other  during  the  first  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  may  be  considered  as  the  most  com- 
plete  types  and  the  most  trustworthy  interpreters 
of  this  school  of  inanity  and  pretension:  Opitz  (1597-1639) 
and  Gottsched  (1700-66).  Both  men  had  undoubtedly  the 
cause  of  German  literature  at  heart  Opitz  through  his 
connections  among  the  nobility,  Gottsched  through  the 
dignity  of  his  Leipzig  professorship,  helped  to  raise  the 
social  standing  of  authors  as  a class.  Both  worked  to 
the  best  of  their  ability  for  a purification  of  the  German 
language,  for  the  establishm.ent  of  a normal  standard  of 
literary  correctness.  And  although  Opitz,  by  advocating 
the  imitation  of  the  French  writers  of  his  time,  put  Ger- 
man poetry  to  the  rack  of  the  Alexandrine  verse,  while 
Gottsched,  by  adopting  the  same  policy  for  his  own  time, 
forced  the  German  drama  into  the  strait-jacket  of  the 
“ three  unities,''  yet  it  is  hard  to  see  how,  without  the  disci- 
pline afforded  by  the  attempt  to  reproduce  foreign  models, 
or  without  the  chastening  influence  of  the  refined  elegance 
of  French  versification  and  composition,  German  literature 
could  have  attained  even  to  the  small  degree  of  formal 
respectability  which  in  those  days  had  come  to  be  consid- 
ered as  the  supreme  test  of  poetic  genius. 

But  if  we  turn  to  the  opinions  which  these  men  held 


l8o  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Their  literary- 
ideals. 


about  the  nature  and  the  office  of  poetry,  if  we  try  to  for- 
mulate the  ideals  of  life  which  prompted  their 
aesthetic  views,  it  is  indeed  as  though  we  saw  an 
impersonation  of  all  the  misery  and  degradation 
which  was  the  lot  of  the  German  people  from 
the  failure  of  the  Reformation  to  the  time  of  Frederick  the 
Great, — as  though  we  saw  the  sad  figure  of  German  Poetry 
herself,  bereft  of  her  mind  by  the  insults  and  persecutions 
heaped  upon  her,  making  an  empty  sport  of  her  own  glori- 
ous past. 

Opitz  laid  down  the  laws  of  poetry  in  the  little  Buck  von 
der  deutschefi  Poeterey^  which  appeared  in  1624.  Gottsched 
propounded  his  views  about  the  subject  chiefly  in  the  volu- 
minous Versuch  einer  Critischen  Dichtkunst  vor  die  DeutscheUy 
which  appeared  about  a hundred  years  later,  in  1730.  Until 
Lessing’s  time  the  theories  expressed  in  these  books  had, 
in  the  minds  of  the  vast  majority  of  those  who  aspired  to 
be  poets,  the  vitality  and  infallible  authority  of  revealed 
truths.  And  yet  it  is  safe  to  say  that  never  has  there  been 
written  a treatise  about  poetry  that  was  further  removed 
than  either  of  these  two  books  from  even  the  vaguest 
poetical  understanding. 

To  put  it  plainly, — poetry  is  to  both  these  men  primarily 
a means  of  currying  favour  with  the  great.  At  the  begin- 
ning as  well  as  the  end  of  his  essay  Opitz 
slave  of  frankly  admits  that  what  he  has  most  at  heart  is 
aristocratic  the  good-will  and  friendship  of  men  of  birth 


vanity. 


and  station/  And  Gottsched,  in  dedicating  his 


book  to  certain  courtiers  of  that  most  despicable  of  all  the 


^ ISfddLw,  nr,  i,p.  8.  58. — For  the  literature  on  Opitz  cf.  GG.  § 179. 
K.  Borinski,  D,  Poetik  d,  Renaiss,  i.  Dtschld.  About  Opitz's  follow- 
ers and  the  term  " Erste  schlesische  Schule’  Koberstein,  Gesch.  d,  d. 

II,  120  ff.  About  the  ‘ Sprachgesellschaften  ’ of  the  seven- 
teenth century  ib,  27  ff.  GG.  § 177.  About  Opitz’s  earlier  contem- 
porary and  literary  forerunner  G.  R.  Weckherlin  (1584-1653)  cf.  GG. 
§ 178,  12.  An  elaboration  of  Opifz’s  theories  in  G.  Harsddrfeds 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  l8l 


petty  tyrants  of  the  time,  Augustus  the  Strong  of  Saxony 
and  Poland,  pleads  guilty  to  this  same  desire  with  such 
naive  candour,  not  to  say  unblushing  servility,  that  com- 
ment on  his  words  is  superfluous. 

**In  the  midst  of  the  most  important  state  transactions/*  he  says/ 
‘‘through  which  your  most  honourable  excellencies  and  lordships  in 
the  service  of  our  most  gracious  king  are  helping  to  further  the  welfare 
of  these  lands”  [he  probably  refers  to  the  carnivals,  hunting-parties, 
and  water-promenades  through  which  the  Dresden  court  of  that  time 
has  acquired  such  a sad  notoriety],  “I  make  bold  to  put  before 
your  eyes  a book  dealing  with  poetry,  nay,  to  place  your  most  high 
names  upon  its  front  pages.  It  has  never  been  a matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  the  great  whether  their  bodily  forms  were  portrayed  satisfac- 
torily or  otherwise;  and  we  find  in  history  some  princes  who  were 
unwilling  to  be  painted  except  by  the  very  best  artists  of  their  time. 
What  the  art  of  painting  accomplishes  with  regard  to  the  body,  the 
art  of  poetry,  as  a much  more  perfect  species  of  painting,  accom- 
plishes with  regard  to  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  Wherefore  it 
is  a wonder  that  great  lords  should  not  have  long  ago  forbidden  all 
unskilled  or  even  mediocre  poets,  with  their  gross  brushes,  to  attempt 
a delineation  of  their  virtues  and  deeds,  which,  by  right,  ought  to  be 
executed  only  by  the  most  rare  pencils.  This  book,  which  I have  the 
honour  of  dedicating  to  your  most  noble  and  gracious  lordships,  con- 
tains among  other  things  those  rules  which  must  be  observed  by  the 


Poetischer  Trickier ^ die  deutsche  Dicht-  u.  Reimkunsty  in  6 Stunden 
einzugiessen  ; Koberstein  1.  c.  52. 

® The  dedicatory  letter  is  addressed  to  Johann  Adolph  von  Loos, 
Sr.  Kdnigl.  Maj,  in  Pohlen  und  Churfl.  Durchl.  zu  Sachsen  Hochbe- 
trauten  wircklich  geheimten  Rathe  und  Obersten  Stallmeistern  **  and 
to  “ Christian  von  Loos,  Sr.  Kdnigl.  Maj.  etc.  Hochansehnlichen 
Cammerherrn,  Hofrathe  und  geheimtem  Referendario.” — It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  add  that  the  above  quotation  is  given  in  full,  not  to  throw 
particular  blame  upon  Gottsched  personally,  but  to  illustrate  the  spirit 
of  the  time.  Such  performances  as  this  were  at  that  time  the  most 
common  way  for  aspiring  authors  to  advertise  themselves.  For 
Gottsched’s  services  as  literary  historian  and  linguist  cf.  M.  Bernays, 
Gottsched  in  Allg.  D.  Biogr.  IX,  497  ff.  Erich  Schmidt,  Lessing  I, 
410  ff. — Gottsched’s  Sterbender  Cato  DN'L.  XLII,  55  ff. 


i82  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


authors  of  laudatory  poems,  and  consequently  also  by  those  who  in 
the  future  will  sing  your  most  high  praise.  The  more  exalted  the 
qualities  are  through  which  your  lordships  have  won  the  favour  of  a 
great  monarch  and  the  respect  of  a large  court,  and  the  wider,  there- 
fore, the  field  which  here  opens  itself  to  a poet,  the  more  reprehen- 
sible would  his  work  be  if  in  such  a worthy  task  he  failed  and,  as  it 
were,  desecrated  such  a noble  praise  from  lack  of  knowledge  or 
ability. — Since,  then,  it  is  one  of  the  chief  aims  of  this  book  to  pro- 
cure for  the  great  of  this  world  suitable  heralds  of  their  deeds,  it  will, 
I hope,  not  seem  altogether  improper  if  these  Principles  of  Poetry 
submitted  to  the  judgment  of  such  illustrious  connoisseurs  as  you,  who 
cannot  be  indifferent  as  to  what  hands  shall  transmit  their  portraits 
to  posterity.  And  although  I find  myself  not  worthy  to  perpetuate 
the  names  of  your  most  illustrious  lordships  and  excellencies  in 
poems  of  my  own,  you  will  perhaps  nevertheless  consider  me  not 
entirely  unworthy  of  your  mercy,  since  I have,  at  least  indirectly, 
tried  to  add  a little  to  your  immortalization.  If  I should  indeed 
attain  the  undeserved  good  fortune  of  enjoying  the  patronage  of  such 
great  statesmen,  I shall  forever  remain  your  most  illustrious,  gracious, 
and  noble  lordships’  and  excellencies’  most  devoted  and  obedient 
servant.” 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  go  into  the  details  of  a theory 
which  was  prompted  by  such  sentiments  as  these.  Neither 

, , Opitz  nor  Gottsched  was  in  the  least  concerned 

Poetry  a play  / 

with  empty  with  any  question  touching  the  true  essence  and 
forms.  inner  motive  of  poetic  production.  Poetry  was 

to  them  simply  a part  of  rhetoric,  a kind  of  ornate  prose; 
the  office  of  the  critic  they  saw  in  suggesting,  the  office  of 
the  poet  in  applying  certain  tricks  and  devices  conducive 
to  the  successful  handling  of  a given  subject.  Opitz  does 
not  even  make  an  attempt  to  conceal  the  shallowness  of  his 
principles.  Two  considerations  appear  to  him  of  para- 
mount importance  : first  the  proper  “ invention  of  things,’’ 
secondly  “ the  correct  preparation  and  decoration  of 
words.”  What  he  means  by  invention  of  things  ” may  be 
gathered  from  his  definition  of  tragedy  and  comedy.^ 


L.  C.  p.  22. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  183 


''Tragedy  . . . seldom  permits  the  introduction  of  people  of  hum- 
ble birth  or  common  deeds,  because  it  deals  only  with  royal  decrees, 
murders,  despairs,  slaughters  of  fathers  and  children,  fires,  incests, 
wars  and  rebellions,  lamentations,  outcries,  sighs,  and  the  like. 
Comedy  has  to  do  with  ordinary  matters  and  persons;  it  speaks  of 
weddings,  banquets,  games,  tricks  and  knaveries  of  servingmen, 
bragging  foot-soldiers,  love  affairs,  frivolity  of  youth,  avarice  of  old 
age,  match-making,  and  such  things  which  daily  occur  among  the 
common  people.  ** 

What  is  meant  by  the  proper  decoration  of  words  ” may 
be  learned  from  his  remarks  about  the ‘‘ weight  and  dig- 
nity of  poetical  speech.’’  ® 

"Concerning  the  weight  and  dignity  of  poetical  speech,"  he  says, 
"it  consists  in  tropes  and  figures,  by  which  we  make  a certain  word 
assume  a different  meaning  from  its  real  one.  To  dwell  here  on  the 
division,  qualities,  and  accessories  of  these  figures,  I deem  unne- 
cessary, because  in  this  respect  we  can  learn  everything  from  the 
example  of  the  Latin  writers.  Only  this  I will  say,  that  it  is  of  the 
highest  importance  that  we  should  try  to  borrow  from  them  and  the 
Greeks  the  use  of  epithets;  in  which  we  Germans  thus  far  have  been 
extremely  lacking.  For  they  give  to  poetical  pieces  such  a splendour 
that  Stesichorus  has  been  considered  the  most  graceful  of  poets 
because  he  knew  how  to  utilize  epithets  most  fittingly. — In  poems  of 
a low  order  common  and  insignificant  people  are  introduced;  as  in 
comedies  and  bucolics.  These  people  of  course  are  made  to  speak 
in  a simple  and  ordinary  manner.  But  in  the  higher  order  of  poetry, 
where  the  interest  turns  on  gods,  heroes,  kings,  princes,  cities,  and 
the  like,  one  must  bring  in  high-sounding,  forcible,  and  spirited  lan- 
guage, and  call  a thing  not  only  by  its  name,  but  paraphrase  it  with 
specious  and  magnificent  words.” 

Gottsched,  in  some  respects,  represents  a more  advanced 
stage  of  criticism  than  Opitz.  He  had  the  benefit  of  hav- 
ing before  his  eyes  the  classic  French  literature  of  the  time 
of  Louis  XIV.,  while  Opitz’s  view  had  been  confined  to 
Ronsard  and  his  contemporaries.  As  a disciple  of  Horace 
and  Boileau  he  insisted,  or  at  least  professed  to  insist,  upon 


8 Z.  p,  32  ff. 


1 84  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


the  imitation  of  nature  as  the  principal  form  of  poetic 
expression.  As  an  adherent  of  the  Wolffian  philosophy^  he 
tried  to  assign  to  poetry  its  place  among  the  moral  agencies 
of  the  world.  And  yet,  from  the  appreciation  of  true  artis- 
tic feeling  and  power  he  was  ^till  more  hopelessly  debarred 
than  his  less  systematic  predecessor.  What  he  most  ad- 
mired in  classic  French  literature  was,  not  the  fire  and  pas- 
sion which,  after  all,  underlay  its  outward  elegance  and 
regularity,  but  this  elegance  and  regularity  itself.  What  he 
was  pleased  to  call  imitation  of  nature  was,  as  a matter  of 
fact,  a pedantic  exclusion  of  everything  not  commonplace. 
What  he  considered  as  the  moral  aim  of  poetry  was  in  real- 
ity the  cultivation  of  a petty,  servile,  bloodless,  and  heart- 
less savoir  vivre^  such  as  became  a generation  which  sub- 
mitted to  the  rule  of  the  powdered  wig  and  padded  calves. 
A single  quotation,  from  the  fourth  chapter  of  his  Critische 
Dichtkunst  * will  illustrate  sufficiently  the  absolute  barren- 
ness of  his  mind  in  problems  concerning  the  true  meaning 
of  poetry. 

How  ought  one  to  proceed/*  he  asks,  apparently  without  any 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  resemblance  of  this  question  to  the  language  of 
a cook-book,  ‘^how  ought  one  to  proceed  if  he  is  of  a mind  to  make 
a poem  or  to  work  out  a plot?’*  And  his  answer  is  as  follows:  ‘At 

the  outset  select  an  instructive  moral  lesson  which  is  to  form  the 
basis  of  the  whole  poem,  in  accordance  with  the  intentions  which  you 
wish  to  follow  out.  Next  invent  the  general  lines  of  an  event  in 
which  there  occurs  an  action  which  most  palpably  demonstrates 
the  chosen  lesson.  Now  there  arises  the  question,  what  use  you 
want  to  make  of  this  invention;  whether  you  wish  to  turn  it  into  a 
fable,  a comedy,  a tragedy,  or  an  epic.  Everything  in  this  respect 
depends  on  the  names  which  you  give  to  the  persons  who  are  to 
appear  in  it.  In  a fable  the  names  must  be  of  animals.  If  you  wish 
to  make  a comedy  of  your  subject,  the  persons  must  be  citizens;  for 
heroes  and  princes  belong  in  a tragedy.  Tragedy  is  distinguished 
from  comedy  only  in  this,  that,  instead  of  laughter,  it  tries  to 


® Ed.  of  1730,/.  133  ff.  In  the  condensation  of  these  pages  I have 
followed  Hettner,  Gesch,  d,  d,  Litt.  i.  Jhdt,  I,  364. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  185 


arouse  wonder,  terror,  and  pity  ; therefore,  it  usually  concerns  itself 
with  men  of  birth  only,  who  are  conspicuous  by  their  rank,  name, 
and  appearance.  In  an  epic,  which  is  the  masterpiece  of  all  poetry, 
the  persons  must  be  the  most  impressive  in  the  world,  kings,  heroes, 
and  great  statesmen,  and  everything  in  it  must  sound  majestic,  strange, 
and  wonderful.’* 

It  would  have  been  a waste  of  time  to  lose  a single  word 
upon  these  puerile  and  unworthy  trifles  if  the  theories  of 
Opitz  and  Gottsched  had  been  only  the  opinions 
of  individuals.  What  gives  to  them  their  great,  corresponding 
though  melancholy,  importance  is  the  fact  that  to  the  psendo- 
they  were  the  expression  of  the  prevailing  literary  theory, 

taste  throughout  the  seventeenth  and  the  first  decades  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  The  same  dead  formalism,  the 
same  worship  of  the  phrase,  the  same  slavish  subservience 
to  an  arbitrary  fashion,  the  same  utter  lack  of  manli- 
ness, originality,  and  inspiration  we  find  in  all  the  favourite 
forms  of  literature  throughout  this  period.  We  find  it  in 
the  hollow  verbosity  of  the  arcadian  and  courtly  novel, 
represented  by  such  works  as  Philip  von  Zesen’s  Adriatic 
Rosamond  (1645);  Buchholz’s  Pleasant  Rofnance  of  the 
Christian  Royal  Princes  Herculiscus  and  Herculadisla  and 
their  Princely  Company  (1659);  Ziegler’s  The  Asiatic 
Banise^  or  Bloody  but  Courageous  Pegu^  Based  on  Historic 
Truth  but  Covered  with  the  Veil  of  a Pleasing  Story  of 
Heroic  Love- Adventure  (1688);  Lohenstein’s  The  Mag- 
nanimous General  Arminius^  with  his  Illustrious  Thusnelda, 
Held  up  to  the  German  Nobility  as  an  Honourable  Example 
and  for  Praiseworthy  Emulation  (1689);  and  a host  of 
others.  We  find  it  in  the  vapid  pomposity  of  the  drama: 
the  blood-curdling,  bombastic  tragedies  of  Andreas  Gry- 
phius  (1616-64)  and  his  contemporaries;  the  boisterous, 
spectacular  Haupt-  und  Staatsactionen  from  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century;  the  tame  declamatory  exercises 
of  the  academic  school,  of  which  Gottsched  himself  was 
the  head.  We  find  it  lastly  in  lyric  and  descriptive  poetry: 


1 86  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


from  Opitz’s  own  pedantic  odes,  pastoral  and  didactic  re- 
flections, through  Hoffmannswaldau’s  (1618-79)  glittering 
and  frivolous  dallying  with  unreal  sentiments,  down  to  the 
unspeakable  platitudes  of  such  courtlings  as  Besser  (1654- 
1729)  and  Konig  (1688-1744),  whose  elaborations  are  in- 
deed on  a plane  with  a famous  political  controversy  of  their 
time,  to  wit:  whether  certain  of  the  princely  delegates  to 
the  German  Diet  should  enjoy  the  privilege  of  having  their 
chairs  upholstered  in  red,  and  whether  these  chairs  should 
be  allowed  on  the  same  carpet  with  that  of  the  imperial 
commissioner.^®  It  is  the  same  spirit  as  that  which  gave 
rise  to  the  meaningless  splendour  of  rococo  architecture; 
which  degraded  the  cathedrals  into  curiosity-shops  filled 
with  tinsel,  tortuous  columns,  and  unholy  paintings;  which 
populated  royal  parks  and  galleries  with  the  statues  of  high- 
born nonentities  and  impossible  allegories;  which  stamped 
its  aristocratic  scrolls  and  flourishes  even  upon  the  house- 
hold goods  of  the  humble  citizen. 

To  sum  up.  Again,  as  in  the  twelfth  century,  literature 
had  become  the  handmaid  of  a small  fraction  of  the  people; 
Difference  be-  again  it  had  become  bound  up  with  the  inter- 
tween tbe  aristocratic  class  rule.  But  what  a dif- 

anstocracy  of  . 

tbe  twelfth  ference  between  the  aristocracy  of  the  twelfth 
and  that  o^he  q£  seventeenth  century!  The 

centnry.  knighthood  of  the  time  of  Frederick  Barbarossa 
had  obtained  its  leading  position  by  right  of  political  ser- 


Cf.  J.  S.  Putter,  Histor,  Entwickelung  der  heut.  deutschen  Staats- 
verf.  (1786)  II,  262  ff,  K.  Biedermann,  Deutscklands  trilbste  Zeit  p. 
50. — For  the  courtly  and  arcadian  novel  cf.  F.  Bobertag,  Gesch.  d. 
Romans  in  Deutschld  II,  i,  51  ff.  Bobertag,  Zweite  schles.  Schule^ 
DNL.  XXXVII.  For  the  courtly  drama  Koberstein  /.  c.  II,  269  ff. 
L.  G.  Wysocki,  A.  Gryphius  et  la  tragedie  Allemande  au  XV IF 
siecle.  DNL.  XXIX  (Gryphius).  XXXVI,  108  ff.  (Zweite  schles. 
Schule).  For  the  courtly  lyrics  M.  v.  Waldberg,  Die  galante  Lyrik^ 
and  Die  deutsche  Renaissancelyrik.  T.  S.  Perry,  From  Opitz  to  Lessing 
p.  31  ff.  Gddeke,  Elf  Bucher  d.  Dichtg  I,  book  2 and  4.  DNL. 
XXVII  (Opitz  and  his  followers).  XXXVI,  i ff.  334  ff.  (Zweite 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM  187 

vice;  chivalric  literature  embodied  the  finest  culture  and 
the  highest  aspirations  of  the  age.  The  so-called  nobility 
which  flocked  to  the  court  of  Augustus  the  Strong  and  other 
centres  of  princely  dissipation  owed  its  predominance 
solely  to  the  helpless  condition  of  a people  whose  material 
prosperity  this  same  nobility  had  ruined  and  whose  spiritual 
hopes  it  had  crushed.  Is  it  a wonder  that  the  belles-lettres 
which  corresponded  to  this  state  of  things  were  the  most 
depraved  and  abject  mockery  that  has  ever  usurped  the 
name  of  literature  ? 

3.  The  Individualistic  Undercurrent  in  Seventeenth-century 
Literature. 

It  is  comforting  and  inspiring  to  observe  how  even  in  this 
bondage  of  despicable  conventions  German  literature  re- 
tained something  of  its  native  independence  and 
sturdiness,  how  it  gradually  wrenched  itself  out  opposition  to 
of  the  deadly  enclosure  of  corruption  and  de-  ^l^solntism. 
pravity,  and  ultimately  became  the  freest  and  most  enlight- 
ened spiritual  force  of  the  world.  Let  us  follow  some  of 
the  phases  of  this  literary  undercurrent,  let  us  see  how  it 
gathered  below  the  icy  crust  of  rule  and  scholasticism,  how 
it  grew  and  broadened,  and  finally  burst  to  the  surface  with 
the  irresistible  power  of  genius  and  life. 

In  speaking  of  the  political,  religious,  and  philosophical 
revivals  of  the  seventeenth  century,  we  observed  that  they 
were  only  belated  results  of  the  great  sixteenth-century 
revolution.  The  same  must  be  said  of  the  literary  revival. 
And  it  must  be  added  that  the  manner  in  which  these  revi- 
vals came  about  was  in  all  cases  essentially  the  same.  The 
sixteenth  century  had  been  on  the  point  of  establishing 


schles.  Schule).  On  the  influence  of  Guarini,  Marino,  and  other 
Italian  writers  upon  this  whole  literature  cf.  Borinski,  Gesch.  d.  d, 
Liu,  seit  d,  Ausg,  d.  MA.  p.  112  f.  Koberstein  1.  c,  104  f.  142. 


1 88  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


national  unity  and  religious  and  intellectual  liberty  through 
a grand  popular  uprising.  Now  that  this  popular  uprising 
had  been  definitely  crushed,  there  was  no  hope  for  the  ulti- 
mate victory  of  its  principles  left  except  in  individual  effort, 
except  in  the  determination  of  single  men  to  carry  on  the 
work  of  a nobler  past  even  under  the  most  discouraging 
conditions  and  in  the  face  of  appalling  difficulties.  This 
it  was  which  the  Great  Elector,  Leibniz,  Spener  did,  each 
in  his  own  way.  This  it  was  which  a number  of  writers, 
whom  we  now  shall  proceed  to  consider,  at  least  tried  to 
do.  This  is  the  manner  in  which  modern  culture  has 
fought  its  way  to  maturity. 

The  writers  who  represent  this  upward  tendency  may  be 
divided  into  three  groups:  those  who  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  religious  matters,  those  whose  attention  is  chiefly 
directed  toward  social  conditions,  those  who  depict  chiefly 
their  own  individual  emotions.  The  first  group  consists  of 
Protestant  and  Catholic  hyrnn-writers,  the  second  embraces 
novelists,  satirists,  and  playwrights;  the  third,  representa- 
tives of  worldly  lyrics  and  descriptive  poetry. 

There  is  a marked  contrast  between  the  hymns  of  the 
sixteenth  and  those  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
hymns  of  Luther  and  his  contemporaries  were 
battle-songs;  they  were  born  out  of  the  conflict 
of  the  old  religious  world  and  the  new;  they 
were  outcrys  of  a whole  people  struggling  to  revolutionize 
its  spiritual  existence.  The  hymns  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury are  the  outpourings  of  individual  souls  longing  for 
peace  and  reconciliation,  expressions  of  trust  in  the  guid- 
ance of  a divine  Providence,  offerings  of  prayer  and  praise 
for  protection  in  distress.  And,  what  is  most  remarkable, 
there  is  hardly  an  allusion  in  them  to  the  warfare  between 
Protestantism  and  Catholicism, — an  unmistakable  sign  of 
the  growth  of  religious  toleration  even  under  the  surface  of 
official  dogmatism  and  sectarianism. 

Among  the  large  number  of  Protestant  hymn-writers,  the 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  189 


most  representative  are  Paul  Fleming  (1609-40)  and  Paul 
Gerhardt  (1606-76).  Paul  Fleming,  an  ambi- 
tious youth  who  worked  his  way  from  the  modest 
surroundings  of  his  father  s country  parsonage  into  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Duke  of  Schleswig-Holstein,  and  who,  after 
having  taken  part  in  diplomatic  missions  to  Russia  and 
Persia,  died  at  the  threshold  of  full  manhood,  was  far  from 
being  in  opposition  to  Opitz  and  his  school.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  admired  Opitz  as  the  German  Pindar  and  Homer 
he  considered  himself  his  pupil;  he  tried  to  vie  with  him 
in  artificial  odes  and  sonnets,  full  of  classical  allusions  and 
allegories;  and  when  a few  days  before  his  own  death,  in  an 
epitaph  written  for  his  grave,  he  claimed  immortality  for 
himself,  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  based  this  claim  upon 
those  conventional  and  lifeless  productions  of  the  Opitzian 
kind,  which  now  are  deservedly  forgotten.  Fleming’s  real 
claim  to  immortality,  however,  rests  on  the  fact  that  in 
sacred  song  at  least,  at  times  also  in  songs  of  love  and 
home,  he  broke  away,  one  might  say  in  spite  of  himself, 
from  his  own  artificial  standards.  It  is  as  though  in  the 
presence  of  his  Creator  the  ambitions  and  passions  of  his 
worldly  career  dwindled  into  nothing.  For  the  deepest 
feeling,  for  the  most  momentous  relations  of  life,  he  finds 
the  simplest  and  most  artless  language.  In  starting  on  his 
Russian  journey,  he  commends  himself  to  God  with  all  his 
own 


Cf.  the  sonnet  Ueber  Herrn  Martin  Opitzen  auf  Boberfeld  sein 
Ableben^  DNL.  XXVIII,  96. — In  worldly  lyrics  a similar  falling  away 
from  the  canon  of  Opitzian  theories,  in  spite  of  unbounded  admiration 
for  Opitz,  is  seen  in  Simon  Dach  (d.  1659),  the  poet  of  Anke  von 
l harau;  DNL.  XXX,  106. 

Nach  des  VI.  Fsalmens  Weise,  DNL.  XXVIII,  27  ff. — For  German 
religious  lyrics  of  the  sixteenth  century  cf,  Ph.  Wackernagel,  D.  d. 
Kirchenlied  v.  d^  dltesten  Zeit  b.  z.  Anfg  d.  17.  Jhdts. 


igo  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Ich  zieh  in  feme  Lande 
Zu  niitzen  einem  Stande 
An  den  er  mich  bestellt, 

Sein  Segen  wird  mir  lassen 
Was  gut  und  recht  ist  fassen, 

Zu  dienen  seiner  Welt. 

Leg  ich  mich  spate  nieder, 

Erwach  ich  friihe  wieder, 

Lieg  Oder  zieh  ich  fort — 

In  Schwachheit  und  in  Banden, 

Und  was  mir  stosst  zu  handen. 

So  trostet  mich  sein  Wort. 

Ihm  hab  ich  mich  ergeben, 

Zu  sterben  und  zu  leben. 

So  bald  er  mir  gebeut. 

Es  sey  heut  oder  morgen, 

Dafiir  lass  ich  ihn  sorgen, 

Er  weiss  die  rechte  Zeit. 

Like  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  Fleming  is  sick  of  the 
world.  He  bids  it  good-night  with  all  its  treasures/^  he 
knows  that  its  part  is  evil;  he  thanks  God  for  having  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  true  life;  he  feels  full  of  heaven;  he  feels 
raised  above  himself,  and  he  defies  the  evil  powers  to  drag 
him  down  again: 

Hin,  Welt,  du  Dunst;  von  itzt  an  schwing  ich  mich 
Frei,  ledig,  los,  hoch  fiber  mich  und  dich 
Und  Alles  das,  was  hoch  heisst  und  dir  heisset. 

Das  hdchste  Gut  erfiillet  mich  mit  sich 

Macht  hoch,  macht  reich.  Ich  bin  nun  nicht  mehr  ich. 

Trutz  dem,  das  mich  in  mich  zurlicke  reisset! 


Neuer  Vorsatz,  1.  c 92:  ‘Welt,  gute  Nacht,  mit  allem  deinem 
Wesen.' — Similarly  Johann  Rist  (cf.  GG.  § 182)  in  his  Loh  des  Hof^ 
Ubens  {DNL.  XXVII,  380) : 

Himmel,  dir  sey  Lob  gesungen, 

Dass  ich  der  bin,  der  ich  bin, 

Auch  annoch  fein  ungezwungen 
Leben  kann  nach  meinem  Sinn ; 

Aller  Hdfe  Glantz  und  Pracht 
Sing  und  sag  ich  gute  Nacht. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  igi 

If  Fleming  rose  superior  to  his  artistic  maxims  and  preju- 
dices, Paul  Gerhardt  was  borne  by  a living  faith  and  an 
imperturbable  joyfulness  of  mind  above  the 

G"  6rli  Bipdt)  • 

prison  walls  of  orthodox  righteousness.  In 
reading  his  poems  we  forget  that  he  was  an  uncompromising 
Lutheran  zealot,  an  irreconcilable  foe  of  Calvmistic  here- 
sies. To  him  the  world,  as  Scherer  expresses  it,  lies  in 
continual  sunshine.  He  is  akin  to  Leibniz  in  his  unfailing 
optimism.  He  scorns  trouble;  distress  is  tahim  happiness, 
darkness  is  light 

Die  Welt  ist  mir  ein  Lachen 
Mit  ihrem  grossen  Zorn; 

Sie  ziirnt,  und  kann  nichts  machen. 

All  Arbeit  ist  verlorn. 

Die  Triibsal  triibt  mir  nicht 
Mein  Herz  und  Angesicht; 

Das  Ungliick  ist  mein  Gliick, 

Die  Nacht  mein  Sonnenblick, 

From  the  horrors  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  from  the  sight 
of  fallen  castles  and  destroyed  cities,  of  trampled  fields  and 
open  graves,  he  turns  away  to  thank  God  for  the  final  return 
of  peace  and  to  inspire  his  people  with  gratitude  for  the 
infinite  grace  and  mercy  of  the  Highest 

Wohlauf  und  nimm  nun  wieder 
Dein  Saitenspiel  hervor, 

O Deutschland!  und  sing  Lieder 
Im  hohen  vollen  Chor. 

Erhebe  dein  Gemiithe 
Unddanke  Gott,  und  sprich; 

Herr,  deine  Gnad  und  Giite 
Bleibt  dennoch  ewiglich ! 

Gerhardt  knows  that  to  the  children  of  God  all  things 
work  together  for  good.  He  who  rules  in  heaven,  he  who 

The  hymn  ‘ Auf,  auf  mein  Herz  mit  Freuden ' ; Geistl.  Lieder  ed. 
Wackernagel  nr,  27.  Cf.  Scherer’s  Gesch  d,  d.  Litt,  p,  340. 

Danklied  vor  die  Verkiindigung  des  Friedens  ; DNL,  XXXI,  154  ff. 


192  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


has  ordered  the  ways  of  winds  and  clouds,  will  find  a path 
for  our  feet  also/®  To  him  Gerhardt  lifts  his  face  in  the 
morning,'^  into  his  care  he  commits  himself  at  night,  as  the 
chicken  seeks  refuge  under  the  wings  of  the  mother  hen/* 
The  joys  of  nature  are  God's  gift,  the  dumb  animals  sing 
his  praise,  all  creation  is  a mighty  chorus  of  thanksgrving, 
in  which  the  poet  cannot  help  mingling  his  voice 

Die  Lerche  schwingt  sich  in  die  Luft, 

Das  Taublein  fleucht  aus  seiner  Kluft 
Und  macht  sich  in  die  Wilder, 

Die  hochbegabte  Nachtigal 
Ergdtzt  und  fiillt  mit  ihrem  Schall 
Berg,  Hiigel,  Thai  and  Felder. 
****** 

Ich  selbsten  kann  und  mag  nicht  ruhn, 

Des  grossen  Gottes  grosses  Thun 
Erweckt  mir  alle  Sinnen: 

Ich  singe  mit,  wenn  alles  singt, 

Und  lasse,  was  dem  Hdchsten  klingt, 

Aus  meinem  Herzen  rinnen. 

But  more  than  all  else  does  the  death  and  resurrection  of 
Christ  fill  Gerhardt  with  unspeakable  joy.  In  a wonderful 
apostrophe  to  Christ's  bleeding  head,^®  all  the  more  won- 
derful because  it  is  an  adaptation  from  Bernhard  of  Clair- 
vaux,  he  vows  faithfulness  to  his  Saviour  unto  the  grave. 
He  knows  that  his  Redeemer  liveth,  that  his  own  body  is 
not  always  to  be  the  prey  of  worms,  that  he  will  step  into  the 
presence  of  God  transfigured/^  And  his  feeling  of  oneness 
with  his  Lord  and  Master  is  so  vivid  and  real  that  he  in- 


The  hymn  ' Befiehl  du  deine  Wege’  ; ib.  174. 

Morgenlied  ‘ Wach  auf  mein  Herz  und  singe’;  ib,  137. 

Abendlied  ' Nun  ruhen  alle  Wilder  ’ ; ib.  139. 

So77ime7'gesang  * Geh  aus  mein  Herz  und  suche  Freud'  ; ib.  191  £f. 
Passionssalve  ‘O  Haupt  voll  Blut  und  Wunden' ; ib.  133  ff. 

The  hymn  ‘Ich  weiss  dass  mein  Erloser  lebt';  Geistl.  Lieder 
ed.  Wackernagel  118. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  IQ3 


stinctively  clothes  it  in  words  which  remind  us  of  the  old 
popular  love-song 

Herr,  mein  Hirt,  Brunn  aller  Freuden, 

Du  bist  mein, 

Ich  bin  dein, 

Niemand  kann  uns  scheiden. 

Ich  bin  dein,  weil  du  dein  Leben 
Und  dein  Blut 
Mir  zu  gut 

In  den  Tod  gegeben. 

Du  bist  mein,  weil  ich  dich  fasse 
Und  dich  nicht, 

O mein  Licht, 

Aus  dem  Herzen  lasse. 

Of  the  two  most  distinguished  among  the  Catholic  hymn- 
writers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Friedrich  Spee  (1591- 
1635)  and  Johann  Scheffler  (1624-77), 
former  was  a Jesuit,  the  latter  a Franciscan. 

But  in  neither  of  them  is  there  a trace  of  that  dark 
fanatic  spirit,  that  abnegation  of  individual  feeling,  which 
so  often  has  been  pronounced  the  inevitable  fruit  of 
Romish  doctrines.  They  both  share  in  the  morbid  taste 
of  their  contemporaries  for  daintiness  of  language,  florid 
descriptions,  and  far-fetched  comparisons.  Spee  devotes 
a poem  of  twenty  stanzas  to  describing  how  he  and  the 
Echo  once  in  a forest  played  ball  ” with  the  name  of 
Jesus.^^  Scheffler  goes  so  far  as  to  compare  the  dying  Jesus 
with  a nightingale  sitting  on  the  cross  and  pouring  out 
melodious  strains,  from  which,  the  poet  says,  his  own  soul 
has  derived  eternal  comfort  and  bliss.^^  But  both  Spee  and 
Scheffler  are  noteworthy  examples  of  the  power  of  true 


Chrisiliches  Freudenlied  ‘ Warum  sollt'  ich  mich  denn  gramen?’ 
DNL.  XXXI,  163  ff. — Cf.  supra^  p.  69. 

The  poem  Die  Gespons  Jesu  spielet  h?i  Wald  mil  einer  Echo  oder 
Widerschall;  Goedeke  Elf  Bucher  d,  Dichtg,  I,  249. 

The  poem  Die  Psyche  vergleicht  ihren  Jesum  einer  Nachtigall ; 
ib.  429.  Similar  aberrations  in  ^inzendorf’s  Geistl.  Lieder  (1725). 


194  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


human  feeling  to  enliven  and  transfigure  even  unreal  and 
assumed  formSo  They  are  the  Minnesingers  of  sacred  song. 
Speeds  strength  lies  in  his  keen  eye  for  the  beauty  of  out- 
ward things,  in  the  Rhinelander’s  love  for  outdoor  merri- 
ment, in  a delicate  ear  for  harmonious  sound.  His  descrip- 
tions of  nature  are  not  always  the  worse  for  being  saturated 
with  Renaissance  conceptions.  When  he  pictures  the  proud 
huntress  Diana  sporting  with  the  Nymphs  of  the  forest,  the 
Sun  filling  his  quiver  with  fresh  arrows;  when  he  represents 
the  summer  winds  as  noble  youths,  riding  upon  clouds, the 
morning-red  as  Aurora  braiding  her  purple  locks, we  are 
reminded  of  a Domenichino  or  a Guido  Reni.  And  all  the 
more  deeply  are  we  impressed  when  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
luxuriant  apotheosis  of  earthly  splendour  he  gives  vent  to  his 
craving  for  spiritual  atonement,  and  with  heart-rending 
lamentation  turns  to  his  beloved  Jesus  for  help*’: 

Ade  du  schdne  Friihlingszeit, 

Ihr  Felder,  Wald  und  Wiesen, 

Laub,  Gras,  und  Bliimlein  neu  gekleidt^ 

Mit  sussem  Tau  berisen! 

Ihr  Wasser  klar 
Erd,  Himmel  gar, 

Ihr  Pfeil  der  gulden  SonnenI 
Nur  Pein  und  Qual 
Bei  mir  zumal 
Hat  Ueberhand  gewonnen. 

Ach  Jesu,  Jesu,  treuer  Held 
Wie  krankest  mich  so  sehre! 

Bin  je  doch  harb  und  harb  gequeltj 
Ach,  nit  mich  so  beschwere! 

Ja  wiltu  sehn 
All  Pein  und  Peen 


Cf.  the  Liebgesang  der  Gespons  Jesu  im  An  fang  der  Sommerzeit ; 
ib.  250. 

Cf.  the  Ecloga  oder  Hirtengesprdch  ; ib.  255. 

Liebgesang  der  Gespons  str.  1 1 . 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  igS 


Im  Augenblick  vergangen, 

Mein  Augen  beid 
Nur  fiihr  zur  Weid, 

Auf  dein  so  schdne  Wangen. 

Scheffler  drew  his  inspiration  not  so  much  from  a delight 
in  the  visible  world  as  from  a deep  conception  of  the  inner 
unity  of  all  nature.  A Protestant  by  birth,  he 
was  led  by  the  writings  of  Jacob  Boehme  and 
other  Mystics  of  his  own  as  well  as  earlyer  times  into 
the  wider  realm  of  a fantastic  Catholicism,  very  much  in 
the  same  way  in  which  cardinal  Newman  was  estranged 
from  the  rigid  formalism  of  the  Anglican  church  through 
his  craving  for  a fuller  and  richer  spiritual  life.  And  as 
Newman  confessed  that  he  ‘‘was  not  ever  thus”;  that  there 
was  a time  when  he  “ loved  to  choose  and  see  his  path,” 
when  he  “loved  the  garish  day”;  but  that  now  he  was  will- 
ing to  be  led  by  the  “ kindly  light  amidst  the  encircling 
gloom,” — so  Scheffler,  also,  contrasted  his  former  aimless 
wandering  with  the  serene  security  of  his  converted  state 

Ich  lief  verirrt  und  war  verblendet, 

Ich  suchte  dich  und  fand  dich  nicht ; 
ich  hatte  mich  von  dir  gewendet, 

Und  liebte  das  geschaffne  Licht. 

Nun  aber  ists  durch  dich  geschehn 
Dass  ich  dich  hab  gesehn. 

Erhalte  mich  auf  deinen  Stegen 
Und  lass  mich  nicht  mehr  irre  gehn ; 

Lass  meinen  Fuss  in  deinen  Wegen 
Nicht  straucheln  oder  stille  stehn  : 

Erleucht  mir  Leib  und  Seele  ganz, 

Du  starker  Himmelsglanz. 

But  Scheffler’s  innermost  life  was  on  a plane  raised  high 
above  both  Protestantism  and  Catholicism.  Like  Spinoza, 
he  dwelt  in  the  intuition  of  a divine  universe,  in  which  there 


The  hymn  ‘ Ich  will  dich  lieben,  meine  Starke  ’ ; L c,  426. 


196  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


is  no  above  or  below,  and  no  past  or  present.  God  was  to 
him  as  much  a part  of  man  as  man  a part  of  God;  the 
whole  as  much  a part  of  the  individual  as  the  individual  a 
part  of  the  whole.  All  life  was  to  him  the  projection  of  a 
single  infinite  being,  In  the  whole  range  of  literature  there 
is  no  book  in  which  pantheism  has  found  a more  original 
poetic  expression  than  in  the  childlike  sibylline  verses  of 
his  Cherubinischer  Wander smann  (1657)/* 

The  rose  which  blossoms  to-day  has  been  blooming  in 
God  from  all  eternity: 

Die  Rose  welche  hier  dein  aussres  Auge  sieht 

Die  hat  von  Ewigkeit  in  Gott  also  gebliiht. 

Man  is  at  the  same  time  a thing  and  not  a thing,  a point 
and  a circle: 

Ich  weiss  nicht  was  ich  bin,  ich  bin  nicht  was  ich  weiss, 

Ein  Ding  und  nicht  ein  Ding,  ein  Stiipfchen  und  ein  Kreis. 

The  true  man  is  as  unchangeable  as  eternity  itself;  he 
becomes  what  he  is  and  is  what  he  has  been: 

Ein  wesentlicher  Mensch  ist  wie  die  Ewigkeit 

Die  unverandert  bleibt  von  aller  Aeusserheit. 

Ich  ward  das  was  ich  war,  und  bin  was  ich  gewesen, 

Und  werd  es  ewig  sein,  wenn  Leib  und  Seel  genesen. 

God  is  in  the  soul  as  the  ocean  is  in  a drop  of  water: 

Sag  an,  wie  geht  es  zu,  wenn  in  ein  Tropfelein, 

In  mich,  das  ganze  Meer  Gott  ganz  und  gar  fieusst  ein  1 

God  died  in  Abel  no  less  than  in  Christ: 

Gott  ist  nicht’s  erstemal  am  Kreuz  getodtet  worden; 

Denn  schau  ! er  Hess  sich  ja  in  Abel  schon  ermorden. 


Cf.  for  the  following  ib.  429. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  1 9/ 


God  is  the  oneness  of  all  things: 

Ein  einger  Gott  und  viel,  wie  stimmt  dies  uberein  ? 

Gar  schdne ; weil  sie  all  in  einem  einer  sein. 

All  the  virtues  are  swallowed  up  in  one,  which  is  justice: 

Schau  alle  Tugenden,  ist  ein  ohn  Unterscheid. 

Wiltu  den  Namen  horn?  sie  heisst  Gerechtigkeit. 

Thus  Scheffler,  with  an  astonishing  wealth  of  ever-new 
applications  and  similes,  goes  on  repeating  in  endless  varia- 
tions his  one  great  theme  of  a divine  universe.  And  he 
who  is  able  to  translate  the  language  of  one  century  into 
that  of  another  will  discover  here  again,  as  in  so  many 
phenomena  of  this  period,  the  pulse-beat  of  our  own 
modern  thought  and  culture. 

There  can  be  hardly  a question  that  no  other  species  of 

seventeenth-century  literature  has  exerted  so  healthy  an 

influence  upon  national  life  and  has  helped  so  National 

much  to  reawaken  a strong  and  manly  sentiment  of 

° tne  religious 

as  sacred  song.  At  a time  when  princely  courts  song, 
had  come  to  be  meeting-grounds  of  vice  and  frivolity,  when 
the  city  halls  and  market-places  had  ceased  to  echo  with  the 
sounds  of  popular  energy  and  enterprise,  there  still  remained 
a refuge  for  noble  imagination  in  the  churches,  and  from 
more  than  one  solitary  country  parsonage  there  shone  forth 
a light  which  in  due  time  was  to  mingle  with  the  dawning  of 
a better  day.  Only  ten  years  after  the  death  of  Paul  Ger- 
hardt,  two  men  were  born  who  were  to  make  church  music 
the  vehicle  of  emotions  as  lofty  and  exalted  as  any  that  ever 
found  expression  in  poetry  and  art:  Bach  and  Handel. 
And  these  men  were  both  still  living  when  Klopstock,  the 
first  great  poet  of  modern  German  literature,  arose  to  sing 
the  delivery  of  the  human  soul  from  the  thraldom  of  sin, 
the  resurrection  of  mind,  the  immortality  of  the  individual. 

If  the  religious  song  of  the  seventeenth  century  is 


198  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


unmistakably  individualistic,  the  same  may  be  said  of  what 
we  have  called  the  undercurrent  of  secular  litera- 
period.  Here,  too,  vre  notice  a con- 
stant and  growing  opposition  to  the  dictates  of 
arbitrary  rule  and  fashion,  a gradual  return  to  nature,  a 
slowly  advancing  emancipation  of  individual  feeling.  None 
of  the  men  who  represent  this  movement  achieved  anything 
that  can  be  called  great.  Few  of  them  reached  beyond 
mediocrity.  The  intellectual  horizon  of  most  of  them  was 
narrow,  their  language  timid,  their  moral  aims  philistine. 
But  if  we  remember  that  they  were  part  of  a people  utterly 
crushed  and  disorganized,  that  they  had  to  make  a life-long 
fight  against  conventionalism  and  pedantry,  we  shall  find  in 
their  efforts  more  to  admire  than  to  criticise. 

In  one  respect  the  movement  appears  to  be  essentially 


negative. 

Gradual  sup- 
planting of 
public  by  pri- 
vate ideals. 


The  further  we  leave  the  time  of  the  Thirty 
Years'  War  behind,  the  further  we  advance 
toward  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the 
more  are  we  struck  with  the  constantly  waning 
influence  of  public  affairs  upon  literature.  But 
this  apparent  symptom  of  decay  was  in  reality  a condition, 
a necessary  condition,  of  the  growth  of  a new  society. 
Since  public  life  more  and  more  came  to  be  a prey  of  an 
aristocracy  devoid  alike  of  moral  dignity  and  national 
aspirations,  it  more  and  more  ceased  to  arouse  in  the  breast 
of  self-respecting  men  any  feeling  except  that  of  anger  and 
indignation.  Private  morality  now  came  to  be  the  chief 
concern  of  life.  Freedom  and  humanity  retired  into  the 
sanctuary  of  the  heart.  Self-observation  and  self-cultiva- 
tion took  the  place  of  outward  activity.  And  literature,  by 
taking  part  in  this  new  tendency,  by  concentrating  its  atten- 
tion upon  the  inner  self,  by  clinging  to  the  idea  of  a spiritual 
life  independent  of  external  conditions,  helped  in  its  part  to 
prepare  the  minds  of  the  educated  for  the  noble  cosmopoli- 
tanism of  Lessing  and  his  contemporaries.  A few  hints 
about  this  gradual  supplanting  of  public  by  private  ideals 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  1 99 


will  bring  our  consideration  of  the  literature  of  this  period 
to  a close. 

To  the  very  disasters  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  with  its 

doleful  sequence  of  popular  misery,  foreign  oppression,  and 

national  degradation,  German  literature  owes  a ^ 

, ^ 1 , Popular  hfeof 

number  of  genuinely  patriotic  and  public-spirited  tlie  seven- 

writers,  all  of  whom,  however,  were  in  opposition  cen- 

1 , . , , tury  as  ex- 

to  the  strongest  and  most  wide-spread  currents  pressed  in 

of  the  public  taste  and  conduct  of  their  time.  literature. 

Not  even  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  inveighed  more 
fervently  against  political  and  moral  corruption  than  the 
noble  Friedrich  von  Logau  (1604-55),  ^ 
who  in  a time  of  sham  and  servility  remained 
true  to  himself.  In  his  own  idealism  Logau  finds  a stand- 
ard for  judging  the  false  gods  of  the  day.  Society  as  he 
sees  it  about  him,  he  describes  as  a sea  in  which  the 
weighty  and  solid  goes  under,  while  the  light  and  frivolous 
is  kept  afloat.^®  In  the  midst  of  contending  religious 
parties,  he  looks  in  vain  for  religion,*^  and  in  the  unctuous 
piety  of  official  churchdom  he  detects  the  note  of  hypo- 
crisy.®^ Although  himself  an  aristocrat  by  birth,  he  in- 
veighs against  the  immorality  of  court  life,  which  seems  to 
him  a hideous  masquerade,®®  and  he  declines  to  bend  his 
knee  before  tinsel  potentates  and  powdered  grandees.®^  With 
scorn  and  indignation  he  speaks  of  militarism,  and  the 
ravages  inflicted  by  it  upon  the  peaceful  citizen.®^ 

**  Merry,  ye  soldiers,  merry  ! The  sabre-belts  with  which  your  loins 
are  girded  have  been  wrought  from  the  skin  of  peasants.  Your 
boots,  your  saddles  and  pistols  you  have  stolen  in  knightly  fashion 


20  Weltgunst;  DNL.  XXVIII,  156.  21  Glauben  ; ib.  166. 

2^  Heuchler ; Sdmnitl.  Sinngedichte  ed.  Eitner  I,  8,  74. 

22  Hofewerkzeug ; ib.  II,  7,  5. 

2'*  Poeterey  ; ib.  I,  5,  3 ° 

Ich  biege  keine  Knie  und  riicke  keine  Kappen 
Fiir  auffgeputzter  Ehr  und  angestrichner  Gunst. 

2^  Anzeigungen  des  Sieges ; ib.  I,  8,  46. 


200  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


upon  the  highway.  Your  horses  have  been  torn  from  the  plough. 
The  last  bloody  crumbs  of  bread  have  been  carried  away  by  your 
camp-followers  and  courtesans.  The  whole  country  is  being  ruined  to 
lift  a handful  of  riders  into  the  saddle.  Merry,  ye  soldiers,  merry  ! 

He  bewails  the  influx  of  foreign,  especially  French, 
fashions  into  Germany;  for  he  knows  that  a people  changes 
its  morality  together  with  its  garb.^® 

‘Hn  olden  times  Germany  was  the  land  of  honesty,  now  it  has 
come  to  be  a lumber-room  where  other  nations  store  their  crimes  and 
vices.’’ **  No  one  is  honoured  amongst  us  who  knows  no  French  ; 
we  disclaim  and  condemn  our  very  ancestors  because  they  spoke  and 
felt  German.”^®  “ Servants  have  to  wear  the  livery  of  their  masters  ; 
can  it,  then,  be  true  that  France  is  the  mistress  and  Germany  the 
slave  ? Fie  upon  thee,  proud  Germany,  for  this  shameful  bondage.” 

The  same  tone  of  manly  independence  which  gives  such 
a solid  ring  to  Logau's  epigrams  we  hear  in  the  prose  satires 
of  his  contemporary,  Hans  Michael  Moscherosch 
(1601-69).  But  while  the  lofty  idealism  of 
landers  voa  Logau  seldom  stoops  to  a detailed  representa- 
Sittewald.  actual  conditions,  it  is  just  here  that 

Moscherosch  is  strongest.  His  Visions  of  Philander  von 
Sittewald  (1642),  although  they  are  in  part,  at  least,  adapted 
from  the  Spanish,^"  and  although  they  have  a large  admix- 
ture of  the  fanciful  and  the  fantastic,  at  the  same  time  give 


Fremde  Tracht ; DNL,  XXVIII,  190. 

Deutschland ; ib.  156,  Frantzosische  Sprache  ; ib,  176. 

Frantzosische  Kleidung ; ib,  162. 

The  Suenos  of  Francisco  Gomez  de  Quevedo  (1635),  which 
Moscheroch  knew  through  a French  translation  by  the  Sieur  de  la 
Geneste. — For  the  Spanish  influence  on  German  literature  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  especially  manifest  in  the  so-called  picaresco 
novel  (Warren,  History  of  the  Novel p.  284  ff.),  cf.  Bobertag  in  the  in- 
troduction to  Grimmelshausen’s  Simp  lids  simus^  DNL,  XXXIII,  p, 
xxvi  ff.  Among  the  earliest  translations  from  the  Spanish  is  the 
Landstortzer  Gusman  von  Alfarache  oder  Picaro  genannt  by  Aegidius 
Albertinus  (1615;  the  original,  by  Mateo  Aleman,  appeared  in  1599). 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  201 


a most  realistic  picture  of  the  ordinary  German  life  of  that 
age  in  all  its  manifold  aspects  and  modifications.  And 
what  a life  it  is  that  he  portrays  ! What  a gigantic  Vanity 
Fair,  what  an  endless  variation  of  the  one  theme  of  the  radi- 
cal wickedness  of  human  nature  and  institutions  ! In  one 
of  the  visions,  entitled  Children  o f LLellj  the  author  is  trans- 
ported to  the  Inferno,  where  he  finds  the  chief  representa- 
tives of  contemporary  society  in  the  role  of  associates  and 
bondsmen  of  the  devil.  In  another,  called^JVays  of  the 
Worlds  Philander  describes  his  experiences  on  the  great 
highroad  which  extends  from  North  America  to  the  Straits 
of  Magellan,  from  Nova  Zembla  to  New  Guinea,  from 
Ormus  to  Seville,  from  Greenland  to  Sumatra,  from  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  Archangel:  the  road  of  hypocrisy. 
Among  other  incidents,  he  meets  a funeral  procession,  a 
widower  with  a great  crowd  of  relatives  following  the  body 
of  his  wife.***  Philander  takes  compassion  on  the  poor  man 
as  he  drags  himself  along,  his  head  bowed  down,  wrapped  up 
in  a wide  black  mantle.  What  a blessed  woman,”  he  ex- 
claims, ‘Ho  be  mourned  so  deeply  by  her  dear  ones  ! what 
a hapless  husband  to  be  bereft  of  such  a noble  wife  ! ” 
But  he  is  quickly  disenchanted  when  his  companion  tells  him 
that  what  afflicts  the  widower  so  deeply  is,  not  the  death  of 
his  wife,  but  the  large  expenses  of  the  funeral  and  the  re- 
flection that  she  might  have  died  before  doctor  and  apothe- 
cary had  had  a chance  of  running  up  such  enormous  bills; 
and  that,  while  he  is  following  her  to  the  grave,  his  imagina- 
tion is  busily  engaged  with  a host  of  future  sweethearts. 
In  still  another  vision,  called  Fashion  s Windup,  the  spirits 
of  Ariovistus,  Arminius,  and  other  heroes  of  an  imaginary 
Germanic  past  are  conjured  up  to  inveigh  against  the  out- 
landish and  effeminate  manners  of  their  depraved  descend- 

41  Cf.  for  the  following  DNL,  XXXII,  46  ff. 

4*  The  identification  of  things  Germanic  and  Celtic  was  a common 
mistake  throughout  the  seventeenth  and  the  larger  part  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century. 


202  SOCIAL  FORCES  III  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

ants.  It  is  Philander  himself  who  appears  before  this 
council,  and  although  he  prides  himself  on  being  a good 
German,  he  finds  not  the  least  favour  in  their  eyes.  They 
first  take  offence  at  his  name.  “ Why,’’  asks  King  Ario- 
vistus,^*  “ if  you  are  a German  by  birth,  have  you  not  a 
German  name  ? Of  what  use  is  a Greek  or  a Hebrew 
name  in  Germany  ? ” Your  Majesty,”  answers  Philander^ 
“such  names  are  common  with  us.”  “Common?  Yes, 
common  as  French  vices.  Is  there  no  faith  left  in  the 
hearts  of  Germans  for  their  fatherland  ? Have  you  not 
been  ruined  by  Roman  despotism  and  perfidy,  and  yet  you 
crave  to  be  called  by  names  borrowed  from  your  oppressors  ? 
Have  you  lost  your  self-respect  to  such  a degree  that  such 
noble-sounding  German  names  as  Erhard,  Adelhard,  Bald- 
fried,  Karl,  Kunrath,  Degenbrecht,  Eitellieb,  Gottfried,  Sig- 
fried,  Theuerdank,  and  others  equally  beautiful  are  despised 
by  you?”  Another  of  the  royal  company  makes  fun  of 
Philander’s  fashionable  hat  ; another  takes  him  by  his  fore- 
lock and  exclaims:  “ Are  you  a German  ? and  you  wear  your 
hair  like  a Frenchman  ? Why  do  you  have  your  hair  hang- 
ing down  over  your  forehead  like  a thief  ? ” Another  says: 
“ You  are  a German  ? Why,  then,  do  you  wear  that  silly 
Frenchified  beard  ? Your  ancestors  considered  an  honest 
full-grown  beard  their  greatest  pride,  and  you,  like  the 
fickle  French  fools,  treat  and  trim  and  curl  it  every  month, 
every  week,  every  day!”  “You  are  a German?”  says 
another,  “ look  at  your  garments  ! What  manner  of  doublet 
is  that,  what  stockings  and  knee-breeches  ? Is  nothing 
good  enough  for  you  that  is  made  in  your  own  country,  you 
despisers  and  traitors  of  your  fatherland  ? Where  is  the 
people  so  fickle,  so  fastidious,  so  foolish  in  bearing  as  the 
degenerate  Germans  of  the  present  day?” 

But  the  most  fearful  picture  of  depravity  drawn  by  Mo- 
scherosch  is  the  vision  entitled  Soldier's  Life^  of  which  it  will 


Cf,  for  the  following  DNL.  L c.  140  ff. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  20 3 


suffice  to  mention  one  episode/^  Philander  in  his  wander- 
ings of  an  evening  passes  by  a church.  As  he  sees  a light 
in  it,  he  decides  to  enter  and  quarter  there  for  the  night. 
Approaching  the  door,  he  is  suddenly  seized  by  two  men 
who  hold  pistols  to  his  breast  and  warn  him  to  be  quiet. 
Then  they  take  him  into  the  church,  and  there,  good  God  ! 
what  a spectacle  opens  before  his  eyes  ! Horses  stand- 
ing in  a row  along  the  pews  and  feeding,  soldiers  lying 
around  a fire,  and  by  another  fire  some  twenty  peasants  and 
citizens  huddled  together  and  tied  with  ropes.  Before 
dawn  the  whole  party  breaks  up,  the  soldiers  and  Philander 
on  horseback,  the  captives  driven  along,  like  cattle,  with 
whips  and  sabres.  In  a wilderness  amid  the  mountains  a 
camp  is  pitched,  and  now  the  torturing  of  the  victims 
begins.  A few  offer  ransoms  and  escape  with  blows  and 
kicks  ; the  majority  undergo  excruciating  agonies.  One, 
with  both  hands  tied  on  his  back,  has  a horsehair  drawn 
through  his  tongue.  Every  time  that  the  unfortunate  man 
cries  out,  his  calves  are  lashed  with  a cowhide.  Another 
has  a rope  with  many  knots  wound  around  his  forehead 
and  tightened  in  the  neck  with  a gag,  so  that  the  blood 
streams  from  his  eyes  and  nose.  And  so  the  story  goes 
on,  a most  appalling  record  of  cruelty,  perhaps  with  de- 
tails which  offend  a refined  taste,  but  with  a formidable 
arraignment  of  the  corruption  and  villany  of  the  omnipo- 
tent soldiery,  which  does  the  greatest  credit  to  the  author’s 
moral  courage  and  patriotism. 

By  the  side  of  Logau  and  Moscherosch,  the  greatest  epi- 
grammatist and  the  greatest  satirist  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury,^^  stands  Hans  Jacob  Christoff  el  von  Grimmelshausen 


44  DNL.  /.  f.  257  ff. 

45  Among  other  satirical  writings  of  the  seventeenth  century  the 

most  remarkable  are  Johann  Lauremberg’s  Low-German  Schertz- 
gedichte  (1652),  reprinted  NddLw.  nr.  17  ; Balthasar  Schupp’s 
Freund  in  der  Noth  (1657),  9 I Abraham  a S.  Clara’s  Judas  der 


204  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE. 


(1625-76),  its  greatest  novelist,  he^  too,  radically  opposed  to 
the  fashionable  vices  and  follies  of  the  ruling 
(jrimmelsliau-  aristocracy.  The  whole  drift  of  his  principal 
work,  the  famous  Simplicius  Simplicissimus 
(1668),  is  to  show  the  vanity  and  perverse- 
ness of  the  existing  social  order.  Gervinus,  and  after  him 
Scherer,  have  drawn  a parallel  between  Simplicissimus  and 
Parzival  which  is  indeed  striking.  Like  Parzival,  Simpli- 
cissimus loses  his  parents  at  an  early  age;  like  him  he  is 
reared  in  the  wilderness;  like  him  he  enters  the  world  a 
dreamy,  childish  youth;  like  him  he  loses  his  better  self  in 
a life  of  reckless  adventure;  like  him  he  is  taught  through 
his  very  mistakes  and  misfortunes  a fuller  view  of  God  and 
mankind,  and  ends,  contented  with  his  lot,  with  soul  at 
peace.  But  there  is  one  radical  difference  between  Wol- 
fram’s work  and  that  of  Grimmelshausen.  Wolfram  be- 
lieved in  the  ideals  of  his  time,  Grimmelshausen  despised 
those  of  his  age.  Wolfram’s  hero  participates  in  the 
highest  and  best  which  chivalrous  culture  can  offer  him, 
and  finally  attains  the  crown  of  perfect  knighthood.  Grim- 
melshausen’s  hero  is  tossed  about  in  a world  of  savageness 
and  brutality,  and  at  the  end  of  his  career  finds  salvation 
only  by  denouncing  and  abjuring  what  had  been  the  chief 
concern  of  his  life. 

A few  episodes  of  this  remarkable  work  will  serve  to 
bring  out  more  fully  the  grim  pessimistic  spirit  with  which 
Grimmelshausen  must  have  looked  about  him.  The  open- 
ing scene  shows  a troop  of  pillaging  soldiers  breaking 
into  the  house  of  Simplicius’s  foster-father,  a peasant  in  the 
Spessart.  Doors  and  windows  are  smashed,  the  furniture 
is  battered  and  burned;  with  devilish  ingenuity  the  inmates 
are  tortured,  one  of  them  has  a pail  of  dung-water  poured 


Ertzschelm  (i6S6),  DNL,  XL;  Christian  ReutePs  Schelmuffsky 
NddLw.  nr.  57. 

46  Book  he.  4;  DNL.  XXXIII,  16  ff. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  20$ 

down  his  throat;  another  is  roasted  in  the  baking-oven;  a 
third  is  thrown  into  hysteric  convulsions  by  having  the  soles 
of  his  feet  licked  by  a goat,  as  he  lies  bound.  Simplicius 
escapes  and  finds  refuge  with  an  old  hermit  in  the  forest.“^ 
Being  asked  his  own  or  his  father’s  name,  he  cannot  give 
them;  as  for  himself,  he  says,  his  mother  used  to  call  him 
boy,  or  rascal,  or  scapegallows,  and  her  husband  she  some- 
times called  such  names  as  clown,  ruffian,  drunken  hog. 
When  the  hermit  asks  him  to  say  a prayer, Jie  reels  off  a 
mock  version  of  the  Paternoster,  and  the  story  of  the  de- 
struction of  his  father’s  house  he  begins  by  saying  : Well, 

there  came  some  iron  men;  they  were  sitting  on  things  as 
large  as  oxen  except  they  had  no  horns.”  In  short,  the 
picture  of  fiendish  rascality  which  was  presented  by  the 
first  scene  is  complemented  here  by  the  evidence  of  hope- 
less ignorance  and  degradation. 

The  whole  record  of  Simplicius’s  life  does  not  differ 
essentially  from  this  beginning.  After  the  death  of  the  old 
hermit,  in  whose  fatherly  care  he  spends  the  next  few  years, 
and  who  finally  is  discovered  to  be  his  real  father,  he  is 
again  turned  adrift.  Captured  by  some  vagrant  soldiers,  he 
is  brought  to  the  court  of  the  governor  of  Hanau.  Here  a 
deliberate  attempt  is  made  to  derange  his  mind,  so  as  to 
make  him  a suitable  court  fool.**®  He  is  put  through  the 
most  loathsome  orgies  and  ordeals.  He  is  torn  out  of  his 
bed  at  night,  by  some  servants  who  are  disguised  as  devils. 
They  blindfold  him,  dance  him  up  and  down  through  the 
house,  and  finally  shut  him  up  in  the  cellar,  where  for  three 
days  they  drug  him  with  the  strongest  drinks.  Next,  he  is 
taken  through  an  imaginary  purgatory  and  heaven,  and 
finally  put  into  a calf’s  skin  and  led  about  by  a rope.  For- 
tunately he  had  been  warned  beforehand  by  a friend,  and 
therefore  manages  to  keep  his  head  in  all  this  Satanic  non- 
sense; but  nevertheless  this  experience  is  another  means 


Book  I,  r.  8 ; DNL.  XXXIII,  25  ff.  Book  II,  5 ff. ; ib.  108  fi. 


206  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

of  poisoning  his  moral  nature,  another  step  in  his  down- 
ward course.  There  follows  the  greatest  variety  of  adven- 
tures. Again  he  is  captured  by  some  roving  Croats;  he  es- 
capes, and  now  takes  up  the  life  of  a highwayman  himself. 
Later  he  discovers  a treasure;  plays  a role  in  polite  society; 
engages  in  a frivolous  love-match  which  forces  him  into  a 
hasty  marriage;  loses  his  money;  drifts  to  Paris,  where  he 
lives  for  some  time  in  wild  dissipations  and  subsequent 
misery;  becomes  a Catholic;  undertakes  a journey  to 
Russia  and  the  Orient;  is  transported  by  magic  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  earth;  and  finally  retires  from  the  world  to  close 
his  days  as  a hermit,  and  to  bewail  the  nothingness  of  all 
things  earthly. 

Even  this  rapid  sketch  will  indicate  sufficiently  that, 
with  all  its  wealth  of  incident  and  character,  this  novel  has 
in  reality  only  one  theme:  the  unmasking  of  the  brute 
which  Grimmelshausen  evidently  conceives  the  average 
man  of  his  time  to  be.  Of  all  the  characters  that  appear 
in  it,  there  is  only  one  who  has  a heart  for  his  fatherland, 
only  one  who  dreams  and  hopes  for  the  future  of  his  race, 
and  he  is  a demented  vagrant!  The  poor  fellow  thinks 
himself  Jupiter,  and  is  planning  a rejuvenation  of  this  old 
world  of  ours.^^*  He  is  going  to  create  a hero  who  shall 
combine  in  himself  the  strength  of  Hercules  with  the  grace 
of  Venus  and  the  wisdom  of  Mercury.  This  hero  is  to  call 
a parliament  of  the  best  and  wisest  men  of  Germany,  who  will 
base  the  future  constitution  of  the  empire  upon  a union  of 
the  free  cities.  Revenues,  taxes,  bondage  of  every  sort 
will  be  abolished.  Kings  and  princes  will  be  deposed.  All 
religions  will  be  united.  There  will  be  no  more  war,  and 
the  gods  themselves  will  descend  from  Mount  Olympus,  to 
reside  henceforth  in  blissful  Germany  and  to  watch  over 
the  maintenance  of  a universal  peace. — Could  a more  bitter 
satire  upon  the  age  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  be  imagined? 


Book  III,  c.  3 ff.  ; DNL,  XXXIII,  219  ff. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  20/ 


Two  other  men  whose  chief  office  it  was  to  hold  up  a 
mirror  to  contemporary  society  must  be  considered:  An- 
dreas Gryphius  (1616-64)  and  Christian  Weise 
(1642-1708),  the  foremost  representatives  of 
seventeenth-century  comedy.  Gryphius,  whom 
we  already  know  as  the  author  of  bombastic  and  lurid 
tragedies  of  the  pseudo-classic  style,  is  perhaps  the  saddest 
example  of  the  baneful  influence  which  the  hopeless  de- 
gradation of  national  life  exercised  even  upon  the  best 
minds  of  the  time.  He  was  undoubtedly  a man  of  genius, 
a dramatist  of  Shaksperian  fibre,  who  under  more  favour- 
able conditions  might  have  become  the  regenerator  of  the 
German  stage.  But  his  mind  was  early  darkened  by  the 
awful  impressions  of  war  and  popular  suffering  his  im- 
agination was  cramped  by  the  petty  life  around  him,  and 
the  still  pettier  theories  of  poetry  and  art  which  resulted 
from  it;  and  it  is  only  in  comedy  that  he  freed  himself 
from  all  this  gloom  and  paltriness  and  became  wholly  him- 
self. His  Hornbilicribrtfax  (between  1647  ^^S®)  is  a 

most  felicitous,  if  overdrawn,  impersonation  of  the  swagger- 
ing, swearing  soldiery  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War;  in  The 
Beloved  Briar  Rose  (first  performed  in  1660)  an  amusing 
picture  is  drawn  of  Silesian  village  life  with  its  neighbour- 
hood quarrels  and  barnyard  politics;  in  Peter  Sque?2tz  (per- 
formed in  1657)  the  familiar  interlude  of  the  Midsummer- 
night's  Dream  is  expanded  into  a play  of  its  own,  presenting 
a delightful  caricature  of  the  philistine  town  bourgeoisie.  A 
scene  from  the  third  act  of  this  farce,  although  it  has  not 
the  merit  of  originality,^*  may  at  least  give  some  idea  of 
how  thoroughly  objective  Gryphius’s  humour  is,  how  it  pro- 
ceeds, not  so  much  from  the  study  of  inner  emotions  and 
conflicts,  as  from  the  observation  of  certain  ludicrous  con- 


Cf.  the  poem  Vanitas!  Vanitatufii  VanitaSy  DNL.  XXIX,  403; 
and  the  sonnet  Dominus  de  me  cogiiat  (ib.  389). 

Cf.  H.  Palm  in  the  introduction  to  the  play,  DNL,  L c,  193  ff. 


2o8  social  forces  in  german  literature. 

ditions  and  outward  discrepancies  of  human  society/* 
Thisbe,  represented  by  Master  Klotz-George,  the  spool- 
maker,  is  waiting  for  her  beloved  Pyramus,  represented  by 
Pickelharing,  the  court  fool,  when  Master  Klipperling,  the 
carpenter,  makes  his  untoward  appearance  in  the  role  of 
the  Lion.  He  frightens  Thisbe  away,  picks  up  her  hat  and 
shawl  and  steps  up  to  Master  Kricks,  the  blacksmith,  who 
stands  near  by  performing  his  part  as  Moon.  The  latter 
takes  him  to  task  for  not  making  his  exit.  Hasn't  Mr. 
Peter  Squentz  (the  manager)  told  us  that  the  actors  ought 
not  to  lounge  about  on  the  stage  and  gape  in  the  air  ? ” 
Klipperling:  Well,  see  here.  That  is  none  of  your  busi- 

ness. I'll  stand  here  just  because  you  don’t  like  it.”  A 
scuffle  ensues  between  the  two,  in  which  Master  Lollinger, 
the  weaver,  alias  the  Well,  also  takes  a part.  The  Moon 
flaps  his  lantern  about  the  Lion’s  head;  both  tumble  over 
the  Well  and  break  his  water-mug.  With  great  difficulty 
Peter  Squentz  restores  order:  “Master  Well,  stand  up! 
Master  Lion,  take  yourself  off ! Master  Moonlight,  take 
your  place  again!  Thisbe,  fetch  another  mug!  Master 
Moonlight,  quick!  light  your  lantern  again!  ” And  when 
at  last  order  has  been  restored,  it  appears  that  the  play  can- 
not go  on,  because  Pyramus  has  absented  himself  in  order 
to  wet  his  throat  at  the  inn. 

If  Gryphius  fell  away  from  the  artificial  pomposity  of 

the  reigning  school  in  practice  rather  than  in  theory,  we 

^ . , see  in  Weise,  his  intellectual  successor,  a direct 

Weise’s  . . . ^ 

Banrisclier  and  conscious  opposition  against  its  very  prin- 
Machiavellus.  ciples.  He  abhorred  bombast  and  pretension. 
He  openly  proclaimed  naturalness  as  the  supreme  law  of 
writing  and  if  in  his  own  dramatic  career  he  more  and 
more  drifted  into  the  other  extreme  of  commonplace  and 

DNL.  1.  c.  228  ff. 

53  ‘‘  Man  muss  die  Sachen  also  vorbringen,  wie  sie  naturell  und  un- 
gezwungen  sind,  sonst  verlieren  sie  alle  grace,  so  kiinstlich  als  sie 
abgefasset  werden  ” — words  from  his  Ueberjlussige  Gedanken  quoted 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAEVS 7'  ABSOLUTISM.  20g 

platitude,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that  it  was  less  his  per- 
sonal fault  than  the  force  of  circumstances.  Nothing  shows 
more  clearly  the  provincial  narrowness  of  German  life  at 
the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  than  the  fact  that  at  the 
same  time  when  Moliere’s  dramas  from  the  Paris  stage 
were  speaking  to  the  whole  civilized  world,  the  foremost 
German  dramatist  saw  himself  confined  to  the  cloisterly 
walls  of  the  Gymnasium  at  Zittau,  with  his  college  boys  as 
actors,  and  their  parents  and  patrons  as  spectators.  Keep- 
ing this  condition  of  things  in  mind,  we  cannot  but  admire 
the  breadth  of  view,  the  universality  of  interest,  the  inti- 
mate observation  of  life  and  human  nature  manifested  in 
the  works  of  this  amazingly  productive  schoolmaster  poet 
Among  the  more  than  fifty  dramas  which  he  wrote,  embrac- 
ing biblical  plays,  historical  tragedies,  and  every-day 
comedies,  none  perhaps  is  more  characteristic  of  the  way 
in  which  his  irrepressible  realism  asserts  itself  in  the  midst 
of  scholasticism  and  convention  than  T/i^  Village  Machia- 
vellus  (1679).^“*  The  prelude  of  this  comedy,  which  was 
one  of  its  earliest  dramatic  efforts,  still  shows  the  unmistak- 
able trace  of  pseudo-classic  models,  not,  however,  without 
a slight  touch  of  irony.  Apollo,  represented  as  a sort  of 
literary  and  moral  Louis  XIV.,  is  holding  what  may  be 
called  a lit  de  justice  on  Mount  Parnassus.  Faith,  Inno- 
cence, Simplicity,  and  other  virtues  appear  before  him  and 
accuse  Macchiavelli,  the  author  of  the  Principe^  of  having, 
by  his  ill-considered  and  perverse  writings,  undermined 
morality  and  brought  about  the  state  of  universal  disorder 
from  which  mankind  is  now  suffering.  His  majesty  Apollo 
orders  an  investigation,  and  Macchiavelli  himself  is  brought 
up  for  trial.  He  affirms  that  his  book,  far  from  preaching 

by  Fulda  in  the  introduction  to  a selection  of  Weise’s  dramatic  works, 
DNL.  XXXIX,  p.  xiii. — Weise^s  principal  novel  Die  drey  drgsten 
Ertznarren  in  der  gantzen  Welt  (1672),  a peaceful  counterpart  to  Sim- 
plicissimus,  reprinted  NddLw.  nr.  12-14, 

Bdurischer  Machiavellus  (1679),  DNL.  XXXIX,  i-ioo. 


210  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

an  unscrupulous  egotism,  was  on  the  contrary  a satire 
directed  against  princely  tyranny,  and  the  accusation  of 
being  responsible  for  the  prevailing  immorality  and  wicked- 
ness of  the  world  he  meets  with  the  assertion  that  the  peas- 
ants, who  certainly  could  not  be  suspected  of  having  read 
his  book,  were  fully  as  Macchiavellian,  that  is,  destitute 
of  moral  principles,  as  any  class  of  society.  Apollo  now 
appoints  a commission  to  examine  the  ethical  status  of  the 
peasantry,  and  the  transition  is  made  to  the  comedy  proper. 

The  scene  changes  from  Mount  Parnassus  to  a German 
country  village,  Querlequitsch  by  name.  The  important 
office  of  Pickelharing, — that  is,  public  clown,  master  of  cere- 
monies at  weddings,  christenings  and  funerals,  and  town 
messenger  in  one  person — has  become  vacant.  There  are 
three  candidates  for  this  place;  and  the  intestine  war,  the 
carnival  of  jealousy,  pettiness,  meanness,  and  trickery 
brought  about  in  this  official-ridden  community  through 
their  competition,  fully  convinces  the  representatives  of 
Apollo  that  the  evils  of  modern  society  have  their  origin, 
not  in  the  teachings  of  any  one  man,  least  of  all  in  those  of 
Macchiavelli,  but  in  the  sole  motive  power  of  all  history, 
human  nature.  The  directness  and  palpableness  with 
which  the  wretched  intrigues  of  the  contesting  parties  and 
the  abject  depravity  of  German  society  at  large  are  repre- 
sented in  this  play  are  truly  astonishing.  The  principal 
character,  the  true  Macchiavellian,  is  the  schoolmaster  of 
the  town.  From  two  of  the  candidates  he  takes  bribes, 
without  of  course  doing  anything  for  them  except  setting 
their  respective  patrons — -the  Gerichtsschulze  and  the  Land- 
schoppe — at  loggerheads  with  each  other.  He  himself 
favours  the  third  candidate,  on  whom  he  has  managed  to 
palm  off  his  daughter;  and  after  a course  of  barefaced 
wirepulling,  arbitrary  delay  of  proceedings,  and  open  de- 
fiance of  law,  he  finally,  having  gone  as  far  as  invoking  the 
military,  comes  out  victorious.  What  in  a measure  justifies 
his  conduct  is  the  fact  that  none  of  the  other  characters 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  21 1 


are  morally  above  him,  while  intellectually  they  are  all  his 
inferiors.  There  is  the  feeble,  timid  Gerichtsschulze^  anxious- 
ly guarding  his  official  authority  and  mortally  afraid  of  the 
imperious  termagant  whom  he  is  unfortunate  enough  to 
call  his  wife.  There  is  the  ambitious  Landschoppe^  con- 
stantly encroaching  upon  the  legal  sphere  of  the  Gerichts- 
schulze.,  himself  however  constantly  duped  by  others.  There 
is  the  ignorant  priest,  open  to  bribery,  and  ready  to  serve 
the  ruling  power.  There  is  the  whole  board  _of  aldermen, 
made  up  of  selfish,  philistine  cowards,  hopelessly  lost  in 
the  meshes  of  red-tape  bureaucracy.  There  is  the  gossip 
of  the  women,  the  barbarous  tyranny  of  the  military,  the 
hypocritical  subservience  of  the  citizen  to  the  nobleman, 
the  insipid  ceremoniousness  of  intercourse  between  people 
of  equal  rank,  the  insolent  brutality  toward  those  of  inferior 
station.  In  short,  a society  rotten  to  the  core  and  be- 
numbed with  artificiality,  the  representation  of  which  in  all 
its  nakedness  would  speak  for  Weise’s  moral  boldness  as 
well  as  it  certainly  does  speak  for  his  artistic  courage,  if  we 
did  not  have  reason  to  believe  that  his  educated  audiences, 
accustomed,  as  they  were,  to  look  down  upon  peasant  life  as 
something  entirely  apart  from  themselves,  failed  to  recog- 
nise their  own  image  in  this  dramatic  mirror. 

Two  scenes  from  this  play,  indicative,  the  one  of  the 
domestic,  the  other  of  the  public  life  of  the  time,  will  show 
the  scathing  realism  of  Weise’s  satire.  This  is  the  fashion 
in  which  the  Gerichtsschulze  and  his  wife  converse  with 
each  other 

‘‘He:  Dearest,  what  is  it?  She':  Have  you  seen  the  pleasant 
young  man  that  came  to  the  house?  Won^t  he  be  a good  match  for 
our  daughter?  He:  Is  he  a lover  of  hers?  She:  It  is  within  our 
power  to  catch  the  bird.  If  we  manage  to  have  him  elected  Pickel- 
haring,  our  daughter  has  a husband.  He:  Well,  there’s  the  rub.  You 
know  how  unreasonable  the  Landschoppe  is.  Who  knows  whether  he 
hasn’t  pledged  himself  to  somebody  else.  She  : Oh,  to  have  such  a 


55  DNL.  XXXIX.  28, 


212  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


wretched  husband!  What  could  the  rat  of  a Landschoppe  accomplish 
against  his  honour  the  Gerichtsschulze^  I tell  you,  either  you  make 
better  use  of  your  authority  or  I will  let  the  public  know  that  there 
is  a woman  in  Querlequitsch  that  knows  how  to  get  even  with  a Land' 
schoppe!  He  : Please  be  quiet,  and  let  things  alone.  She:  You  mis- 
erable coward!  So  far  as  you  are  concerned,  the  whole  house- 
hold and  the  welfare  of  the  children  might  go  to  the  dogs.-  Such 
an  opportunity  doesn’t  come  every  day.  If  you  let  somebody  else 
get  the  better  of  you,  I shall  disown  you  as  my  husband.  He:  I have 
only  one  vote;  what  can  I do?  She  : Nor  has  the  Landschoppe  more 
than  one,  and  yet  he  manages  to  have  things  his  own  way.  If  you 
want  to  be  a fool  and  be  led  by  the  nose,  well,  you  can  get  all  the 
ridicule  you  want.  He  : You  are  right.  Thus  far,  for  peace’s  sake, 
I have  taken  his  intrigues  in  good  part.  But  now  the  happiness  of 
my  child  is  at  stake.  Go  and  welcome  the  young  man,  and  see  how 
you  can  influence  our  daughter.” 

And  this  is  the  reception  which  is  accorded  to  the  board 
of  Querlequitsch  aldermen  when  they  in  a body  appear 
before  the  military  commander  of  the  town  in  order  to 
plead  before  him  against  the  illegal  actions  of  the  school- 
master, not  knowing  that  these  actions  were  abetted  by  the 
same  officer  whose  aid  they  have  come  to  inyoke 

Officer:  You  accursed  beasts,  do  you  think  a cavalier  and  officer 
like  myself  would  have  been  sent  on  duty  into  this  town  in  order  to 
have  himself  insulted  by  you  miserable  wretches?  Sulphur  and  pitch 
upon  your  accursed  heads! 

Gerichtsschulze:  Herr  Landschoppe,  you  had  better  be  the  speaker. 
I have  no  objection  to  ceding  you  my  place. 

Officer:  Well,  let  me  hear!  Why  is  it  that  I must  be  bored  by  this 
merry  company  ? 

Landschoppe:  Herr  Einnehmer,  you  have  more  to  do  with  duties. 
Why  don’t  you  say  something?  My  place  is  behind  the  Gerichts- 
schulze. 

Officer:  How  long  shall  I wait,  you  dogs?  Is  this  meant  as  a fresh 
insult  ? 


66  DNL,  XXXIX,  82  f. 

6’’^  The  expression  is  intended  as  a playful  allusion  to  the  officer’s 
remark  about  his  being  in  town  on  duty. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  213 


Einnehmer:  Let  him  speak  who  has  the  highest  salary.  Honour 
and  burden  go  together. 

Officer:  What  are  those  dumb  dogs  muttering?  Speak  out  or  I 
shall  make  use  of  force.  [He  seizes  the  Bettelvoigt  by  his  sleeve Say, 
rascals,  what  do  you  want? 

Bettelvoigt:  I don’t  know  what  business  the  Herr  Gerichtsschulze 
has.  May  your  lordship  command  him  to  speak  for  himself. 

Officer:  Hast  thou  nothing  to  bring  forward  in  thine  own  name? 
Bettelvoigt:  No,  I have  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 

Officer:  Well,  then,  by"St.  Valentine!  get  thee  hence! 

Bierschatzer : Oh,  yes,  we  shall  go  presently. 

Officer:  What?  Thou  darest  to  go  before  1 command  thee ? Stay! 
and  let  me  hear  your  petition.’* 

4.  The  Sentimentalism  and  Rationalism  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century. 

The  generation  which  grew  up  at  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century;  which  lived  through  a succes-  ^ 

U ui6r 

sion  of  wars — the  Spanish,  the  Swedish,  the  Polish  tion  of  public 

— actuated  by  the  most  narrow  dynastic  motives;  hfeatthe  be- 

. ginning  of  the 

which  saw  the  youth  of  the  country  carried  off  by  eighteenth 
the  recruiting-officers  of  the  king  of  Prussia,  and  century, 
the  savings  of  the  citizen  squandered  by  such  princely  lib- 
ertines as  Augustus  the  Strong  of  Saxony,  this  generation 
became  incapable  even  of  moral  indignation  at  the  wretched 
condition  of  public  life,  and  settled  down  to  a contemptu- 
ous indifference  to  the  whims  and  excesses  of  their  rulers. 
What  is  best  in  German  literature  from  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century  to  the  time  of  Frederick  the  Great, 
is  a record  of  the  feelings  of  private  individuals,  confined 
to  the  sphere  of  domestic  virtues,  and  absorbed  in  theoreti- 
cal speculations  about  an  ideal  world. 

If  we  remember  that  this  was  the  epoch  which  immedi- 
ately preceded  the  beginnings  of  a literary  revival  the  like 

of  which  modern  civilization  has  not  seen, — the  . , „ 

^ Approacn  of  a 

great  classic  period  of  German  literature, — we  literary  re- 

are  again  led  back  to  the  main  subject  of  this 

chapter  : the  consideration  of  the  revolutionary  forces  which 


214  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


were  at  the  bottom  of  German  intellectual  life  during  the 
long  reign  of  absolutism  from  the  days  of  Opitz  to  those 
of  Lessing. 

That  among  these  forces  during  the  first  half  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  the  influence  of  English  poetry  and  fiction 
was  one  of  the  most  important,  there  can  be  no 
question.  In  the  sixteenth  century  England 
had  received  from  Germany  the  spark  of  a new 
religious  life.  While  in  Germany  itself  this  spark  devel- 
oped into  a fire,  destroying  the  social  and  political  structure 
to  its  very  foundation,  it  had  kindled  in  England  the  light 
of  modern  freedom  and  culture.  While  Germany’s  best 
men  in  the  seventeenth  century  consumed  their  energies  in 
a hopeless  struggle  against  petty  surroundings,  Shakspere 
and  Milton  were  borne  along  by  the  majestic  stream  of 
English  public  opinion.  When  now,  in  the  first  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  Germany  had  sunk  to  the  very  lowest 
level  of  political  misery,  when  her  best  men,  instead  of 
inveighing  any  longer  against  national  abuses,  turned  to  the 
quiet  realm  of  moral  and  aesthetic  observations,  it  was  nat- 
ural that  their  glance  should  have  been  attracted  by  the 
powerful  literary  development  which  meanwhile  had  taken 
place  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel;  and  thus  it  came 
about  that  the  mental  stimulus  which  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury Germany  had  given  to  England  was  now  returned  to 
her  with  added  force.^^ 


Cf.  Max  Koch,  D.  Beziehungen  d.  engl.  Litt.  z.  deutschen  im  i8. 
Jhdt. — For  the  German  influence  on  English  literature  of  the  six- 
teenth century  cf.  C.  H.  Herford,  Literary  Relations  of  England  and 
Germany  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.  For  the  English  influence  on  Ger- 
man literature  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  cf.  Titt- 
mann’s  introductions  to  Die  Schauspide  der  engl.  Komoediante*^ 
{^Deutsche  Dichter  d.  id.Jhdts.  XIII),  io  Ausgew.  Dramen  Jacob  Ayrer' s 
{ib.  Ill,  128  ff.),  and  to  Die  Schauspiele  d.  Hzgs  Heinr.  Jul.  v.  Braun- 
schweig {ib.  XIV).  A.  Cohn,  Shakespeare  in  Germany . W.  Creizenach 
in  the  introduction  to  his  edition  of  the  English  comedians,  DiVL. 
XXIII. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  215 


It  was  Defoe’s  Robinson  Crusoe  which  gave  incentive  to 
one  of  the  most  popular  kinds  of  German  fiction  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  so-called  Robins  on  aden.^^  Addison’s 
Spectator  and  Guardiaii  were  imitated  in  the  host  of  Mora- 
lische  Wochenschriften  which  in  the  first  decades  of  the 
century  formed  the  only  rallying- point  for  free  discussion 
in  Germany.®®  In  Pope’s  writings,  men  of  such  different 
stamp  as  Haller  and  Hagedorn  found  moral  nourishment. 
Pope’s  and  Swift’s  example  encouraged  the  tame  satire  of 
Liscow,  Rabener,  and  Zachariae.®®*  Milton  mspired  critics 
like  Bodmer  and  Breitinger  to  open,  even  though  in  a lame 
and  awkward  fashion,  the  battle  for  the  delivery  of  poetic 
genius  from  the  dictates  of  the  intellect,  which  in  course  of 
time  was  to  lead  to  the  Storm  and  Stress  agitation,  and  finally 
to  the  Romantic  movement.®*  Thomson’s  Seasons  re-echoed 
in  Ewald  von  Kleist’s  Frilhling  (1749).  And  the  effect  of 
Richardson’s  novels  upon  the  German  taste  of  that  time 


That  the  main  outline  of  Defoe^s  Crusoe  had  been  anticipated  in 
Grimmelshausen’s  Continuatio  des  abenteuerlichen  Simplicissimi  DNL. 
XXXIV,  189  ff.)  is  only  an  additional  proof  of  the  susceptibility  of 
the  German  public  of  that  time  for  this  sort  of  literature.  A specimen 
of  Schnabel’s  Inset  Felsenburg  (1731)  DNL.  XXXVII,  484  ff. 

Cf.  K.  Biedermann,  Deutschld  im  18.  Jhdt  II,  i,  429  ff. — The 
foremost  among  these  periodicals  were  Die  Discourse  der  Mahlern 
(Zurich,  1721,  chief  contributors  Bodmer  and  Breitinger,  DNL.  XLII, 
I ff.);  Der  Patriot  (Hamburg,  1724)  ; Gottsched’s  Die  verniinftigen 
Tadlerinnen  (Leipzig,  1725)  ; Neue  Beitrdge  zum  V ergniigen  des  Ver- 
Uandes  und  Witzes^  commonly  Bremer  Beitrdge  (Bremen,  1745). 

Cf.  Gervinus,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Dichtg  IV,  57  ff.  108  ff.  Biedermann, 
/.  II,  2,  12  ff. — Parts  of  Liscow’s  introduction  to  his  Sammlung 
satyr,  u.  ei'nsthafter  Schriften  (1739)  in  Bremer  Beitrdger  ed.  F. 
Muncker,  DNL.  XLIV,  49  ff.  Rabener’s  Versuch  eines  deutschen 
Worterbuchs  (1746)  ib.  2i  ff.  Zacharia’s  Der  Renommist  (1744)  ib. 
261  ff. 

Cf.  F.  Braitmaier,  Gesch.  d.  poet,  Tkeorie  von  d,  Diskursen  d. 
Mater  b,  auf  Lessing  I,  c.  2-8. 


2i6  social  forces  in  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


may  be  gathered  from  what  Gellert  writes  after  having  read 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  ; 

‘‘For  oh!  how  many  years  have  I not  been  able  to  weep,  not  iot 
all  the  wonders  of  nature  ; so  hard,  so  obdurate  was  my  heart.  Buf 
to-day  I shed  tears,  flooded  with  tears  my  book,  my  desk,  my  face, 
my  handkerchief.  1 was  drowned  with  weeping.  I sobbed  with  infi- 
nite joy,  as  though  I were  myself  that  blissful  mixture  of  happiness 
and  woe,  love  and  pain,  virtue  and  weakness.  Is  Richardson,  then, 
a magician  ? Yes,  he  commands  all  that  is  touching  and  overwhelm- 
ing, enrapturing  and  intoxicating.  Richardson,  thou  immortal  man* 
pride  of  ffuman  kind  and  prince  of  novelists!  ” 

But  important  as  the  stimulus  received  from  England  was, 
it  would  be  a mistake  to  see  in  it  the  sole  or  even  the  domi- 
nant factor  of  the  intellectual  revolution  at  the  eve  of  which 
Widening  ot  Germany  had  now  arrived.  He  who  reads 
indmdual  the  history  of  German  literature  in  the  seven- 

feelmg  teenth  century  with  an  unprejudiced  eye  cannot 

through  senti-  . . ^ 

mentalism  and  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  fact  that  there  ran 

rationalism.  through  it  a constant  undercurrent  of  opposition 
against  princely  omnipotence,  orthodox  intolerance,  and 
literary  conventionalism.  This  same  current,  having  failed 
to  break  through  the  solid  rock  of  public  indifference  and 
apathy,  now  turned  into  another  channel,  and  instead  of 
vainly  beating  against  hopeless  social  conditions,  spent  itself 
in  widening,  deepening,  and  intensifying  the  inner  life  of 
the  individual.  We  are  inclined  nowadays  to  speak  with  a 
condescending  smile  of  the  weakly  sentimentalism  and 
shallow  rationalism  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But  we 
must  not  forget  that  sentimentalism  and  rationalism  were 
in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  only  possible 
manifestations  of  that  spirit  of  independence  which  had 
been  kindled  by  the  Reformation,  and  which  more  than  a 

Gellert’s  Sdmmtl.  Schriften^  Leipz.  1839,  VIII,  119.  Cf.  Julian 
Schmidt,  Gesch,  d,  d.  Litt,  von  Leibniz  b.  auf  unsere  Zeit  I,  212. 
Richardson^s  influence  on  Gellert’s  Lebe7t  d.  schwed.  Grdjin  is  shown 
by  Erich  Schmidt,  Richardsony  Rousseau,  Goethe p,  23. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  21/ 


century  of  oppression  had  not  been  able  to  smother  entirely. 
And  if  we  are  asked  what  it  is  that  in  the  productions  of 
that  time  appears  to  us  as  peculiarly  indicative  of  a genu- 
ine inner  life,  we  cannot  help  answering  that  it  is  just  this 
sentimentalism,  however  weakly,  or  this  rationalism,  how- 
ever shallow. 

It  must  be  conceded  that  there  is  nothing  noble  or  great 
in  the  career  of  such  a man  as  Christian  Gunther  (1695- 
1723).  He  squandered  his  talents  in  emotional 
excesses  and  sensual  dissipations,  and  the  bulk 
of  his  poems  is  concerned  with  the  trivial  pleasures  of  a 
boisterous  student  life  and  the  torments  which  the  wrath  of 
an  austere  father,  unrelenting  creditors,  and  a faithless  love 
brought  upon  him.  But  observe  him  as  he  strikes  up  a 
drinking-song 

Briider,  lasst  uns  lustig  sein, 

Weil  der  Friihling  wahret, 

Und  der  Jugend  Sonnenschein 
Unser  Laub  verklaret! 

Grab  und  Bahre  warten  nicht; 

Wer  die  Rosen  jetzo  bricht, 

Dem  ist  der  Kranz  bescheret. 

See  him  bidding  farewell  to  his  sweetheart^: 

Will  ich  dich  doch  gerne  meiden 
Gieb  mir  nur  noch  einen  Kuss, 

Eh  ich  sonst  das  letzte  leiden 
Und  den  Ring  zerbrechen  muss. 

In  den  Waldern  will  ich  irren, 

Vor  den  Menschen  will  ich  fliehn, 

Mit  verwaisten  Tauben  girren, 

Mit  verscheuchtem  Wilde  ziehn, 

Bis  der  Gram  mein  Leben  raube. 

Bis  die  Krafte  sich  verschrein, 

Und  da  soli  ein  Grab  von  Laube 
Milder  als  dein  Herze  sein. 


Gunther's  Gedichte  ed.  Fulda,  DNL,  XXXVIII,  7g. 


Ib.  21 1 f. 


2l8  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Listen  to  his  wild  outcries  of  despair 

Ich  hore,  grosser  Gott,  den  Donner  deiner  Stimme. 

Du  horest  auch  nicht  mehr.  Ich  soli  von  deinem  Grimme 
Aus  Grosse  meiner  Schuld  ein  ewig  Opfer  sein. 

Ich  soil,  ich  muss,  ich  will,  ich  gebe  mich  darein, 

Ich  trotze  deinem  Zorn,  ich  fleh  nicht  mehr  um  Gnade, 

Ich  will  nicht,  dass  dein  Herz  mich  dieser  Straff  entlade. 

Du  bist  kein  Vater  mehr,  als  Richter  bitt  ich  dich: 

Vergiss  vorher  dein  Kind,  hernach  verstosse  mich. 

And  you  will  realize  how  far  this  sentimental  youth  was 
lifted  above  his  arid  and  monotonous  surroundings;  you  will 
understand  why  Goethe  placed  this  youth  among  the  men 
from  whom  he  himself  derived  his  earliest  inspirations.®® 

It  is  true  that  many  of  the  elaborate  descriptions  of  out- 
door scenery  by  Barthold  Heinrich  Brockes  (1680-1747), 
Gunther's  more  fortunate  contemporary,  are 

SrocksSi  • • ... 

open  to  ridicule.  The  poet  in  him  is  often  put 
in  the  shade  by  the  well-to-do  bourgeois.  When  he  revels 
through  seven  pages  in  philosophical  speculations  about 
the  usefulness  of  a roasted  lamb®’;  when  he  expresses  his 
delight  in  the  perfume  of  a violet  by  what  he  calls  rational 
smelling,"  that  is,  by  pronouncing  between  every  inhalation 
one  syllable  of  the  following  words 

D ir-riech  ’-ich-die-se-sch5-n  e-Blu-me , 
O-Gott-der-sie-mir-schenkt-zum-Ruh-me: 

Ich-riech -und-freu’-mich-dein-in-ihr; 
Denn-du-al-lein-for-mierst-und-gie-best 
Zur-Pro-be,-wie-so-stark-du-lie-best, 
Der-Blu-men-Pracht.-Ge-ruch-und-Zier; 
Die-Kraft-zu-rie-chen-schenkst-du-mir;  — 

when  in  a congratulatory  poem  on  his  own  sixty-fifth  birth- 
day he  thanks  God  for  having  blessed  him  thus  far  with 
46,700  square  meals  and  23,360  comfortable  nights,®® — we 

DNL.  XXXVIII,  25. 

®®  Dichtung  u,  Wahrh.,  book  7,  Werke  Hempel  XXI,  49. 

Cf.  DNL,  XXXIX,  289.  Ib.  375.  Ib,  376. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  219 


cannot  help  wishing  that  he  had  kept  the  reasons  for  his 
optimistic  belief  in  the  beauty  and  reasonableness  of  the 
universe  somewhat  more  in  the  background.  But  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  we  compare  the  intellectual  and  emotional 
world  of  this  contented  Hamburg  citizen  with  the  harsh, 
dissonant,  and  barren  life  of  the  contemporaries  of  Mosch- 
erosch  and  Grimmelshausen,  how  much  richer,  fuller, 
and  more  intense  it  is!  Brockes,  as  Gervinus  has  said, 
emancipated  the  senses.  Very  fittingly  he  gave  to  the  col- 
lection of  his  principal  poems  the  title  Earthly  Joy  in  God 
(1721  ff.)  ; for  there  is  nothing  on  this  earth  which  does 
not  call  forth  his  sympathy  and  loving  contemplation.  And 
if,  like  the  Dutch  painters  of  still  life,  he  especially  delights 
in  the  small  and  the  unpretentious,  if  he  goes  into  raptures 
over  cherry-blossoms,'^''  over  a golden  beetle,”  over  the  deli- 
cate wings  of  a fly,’‘^  over  the  dewdrops  on  the  foliage/^ 
he  is  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  great  phenomena  of 
nature.  His  phlegmatic  temper  is  stirred  into  slow  but 
long-drawn  waves  of  emotion  when,  in  a panegyric  of 
seventy  stanzas,  he  celebrates  the  sun,  as  a symbol  of 
eternity  ” : 

Ocean  so  vieler  Erden, 

Himmlisch  Lichts — und  Lebensmeer, 

Reich,  darin  vereinigt  werden 
Dieser  grossen  Kdrper  Heer, 

Zeiget  nicht  dein  weit  Gefilde 
Die  Unendlichkeit  im  Bilde, 

Wenn  ich  ein  unendlichs  Blau 
In  des  Himmels  Hohen  schau? 

And  it  seems  an  anticipation  of  Klopstock’s  Fruhlings- 
feier^  when,  in  another  poem,’^  he  attempts  a gorgeous  de- 
scription of  a devastating  thunderstorm  followed  by  the 
freshness  and  serenity  of  a balmy  spring  day. 

Between  Brockes  and  Klopstock  stands  Albrecht  von 


■'o  DNL.  XXXIX,  351. 

Ib.  334, 


Ib.  307. 
Ib.  319. 


Ib,  366. 
’5  Ib.  325. 


220  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Haller  (1708-77),  the  author  of  The  Alps  (1729).  He,  too, 
was  far  from  being  a great  poet.  What  Lessing 
has  said’®  with  regard  to  one  of  his  descriptions 
of  Alpine  flora,  that,  although  one  hears  in  every  word  of 
his  the  artist  at  work,  yet  one  does  not  see  the  object  at 
which  he  is  working,’'  must  be  said  of  most  of  his  produc- 
tions. But  in  this  very  laboriousness  and  heaviness  of 
Haller’s  style  we  recognise  the  true  worth  of  the  man;  we 
see  in  it  the  effect  of  a deep  inner  struggle;  we  are  brought 
into  the  presence  of  a soul  oppressed  with  the  sense  of 
earthly  depravity,  yet  dauntlessly  striving  for  the  ideal  of  a 
consummate  existence.  The  offspring  of  a patrician  Ber- 
nese family,  a physiologist  of  great  eminence,  during  the 
best  years  of  his  manhood  the  most  influential  and  most 
widely  known  teacher  at  the  University  of  Gottingen,  in  his 
old  age  living  in  his  native  town  as  a universally  venerated 
patriarch,  a man  incessantly  working  for  the  best  and  high- 
est, Haller  seems  never  to  have  been  at  peace  with  him- 
self. From  1736  till  his  death  in  1777,  through  forty-two 
successive  years,  he  kept  a diary  in  which  from  time  to 
time  he  jotted  down  observations  about  his  own  inner  life. 
From  beginning  to  end  these  notes  are  replete  with  self- 
incriminations.” 

“ For  oh  how  long  has  there  been  no  vision  of  the  divine!  Vanity, 
envy,  hatred,  wrath!  Miserable  prayer  without  strength  or  faith! 
Miserable  resolves  without  doings!  Meanwhile  the  time  of  mercy 
passes  by;  who  knows  how  long  it  will  last! — Oh,  God,  destroy  the 
false  sources  of  my  comfort,  the  dallying  trifles  of  my  studies!  I 
read  in  the  Bible  the  story  of  the  suffering  Saviour,  and  think  at  the 
same  time  of  my  plants  and  other  buffooneries! — I feel  the  nothing- 
ness of  all  the  things  which  men  summon  up  for  their  consolation. 
The  brain  and  the  mental  organism  are  active  and  free,  but  the  soul 
is  irrevocably  drawn  into  an  abyss,  which  itself  is  insensibly  sinking 
into  an  unfathomable  depth.” 


Laokoofiy  c.  17;  Werke  Lachmann-Muncker  IX,  104. 
Haller’s  Tagebuch  II,  221  ff. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  221 


Such  were  the  doubts  and  moral  conflicts  from  which  Haller 
strove  to  free  himself,  at  least  momentarily,  by  the  contem- 
plation of  immortal  nature  and  innocent  primitive  life. 
Brockes,  the  contented  rationalist,  we  may  picture  to  our^ 
selves  walking  about  in  comfortable  stateliness  along  the  well- 
cultivated  banks  of  the  Elbe,  enjoying  every  sight  and  every 
sound;  Haller  we  see  fleeing  into  the  wilderness  of  snowy 
mountains  and  impassable  rocks  to  find  there  what  civiliza- 
tion cannot  give  him:  the  image  of  true  manhood.  He  re- 
joices that  Nature  has  denied  to  the  Swiss  the  dangerous 
riches  which  were  the  ruin  even  of  mighty  Rome;  that  by 
throwing  up  the  bulwark  of  the  Alps  she  kept  them  from 
the  rest  of  the  world — for  man  is  man’s  greatest  enemy; 
that  she  granted  them  only  one  native  metal:  iron,  the 
upholder  of  freedom  — 

Denn,  wo  die  Freiheit  herrscht,  wird  alle  Miihe  minder. 

Die  Felsen  selbst  bebliimt,  und  Boreas  gelinder. 

He  describes  the  manly  sports  of  the  mountaineers,  the 
wrestling-  and  shooting-matches,  the  dance  on  the  village 
green,  the  chant  of  the  shepherds.  He  introduces  a hoary 
patriarch  who  recounts  to  the  assembled  youth  the  deeds 
of  their  ancestors;  another  who  inveighs  against  the  tyranny 
from  which  Tell  delivered  the  Swiss,  but  under  which  half 
of  Europe  is  still  pining’®: 

Wie  Tell  mit  kiihnem  Mut  has  harte  Joch  zertreten, 

Das  Joch,  das  heute  noch  Europens  HSlfte  trSigt: 

Wie  um  uns  alies  darbt,  und  hungert  in  den  Ketten, 

Und  Welschlands  Paradies  gebogne  Bettler  hegt. 

And  with  this  healthy,  strong,  manly  mountain  life  he  con- 
trasts the  ambition,  the  corruption,  the  vices,  and  the  misery 
of  the  cities.  In  short,  he  gives  vent  to  feelings  which  a 


HallePs  Die  Alpen,  v.  59  f. ; Gedichte  ed.  Hirzel  p,  23. 
Lb.  V.  295  ff. ; /.  c.  p.  33. 


222  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

few  decades  later,  fanned  by  the  impassioned  eloquence  of 
Rousseau,  were  to  set  the  youth  of  all  Europe  aflame. 

While  Haller  found  true  humanity  in  the  solitude  of 

Alpine  valleys,  Hagedorn  (1708-54),  Gleim  (1719-1803),  and 

the  other  so-called  Anacreonticists  sought  tor 

The  Anacreon-  idyllic  seclusion  of  an  epicurean  fairy- 

ticistsi  . . 

land.  That  the  intellectual  life  of  these  men 

was  devoid  of  great  incentive  and  true  inspiration  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  Even  in  the  best  of  Hagedorn’s  poems, 
such  as  “Johann  der  muntre  Seifensieder  ” or  “ Der 
Nachtigall  reizende  Lieder,’’  we  are  made  to  breathe 

the  artificial  atmosphere  of  the  seventeenth-century  pas- 
toral; and  the  essential  untruthfulness  of  Gleim’s  end- 
less dalliance  with  love,  wine,  and  friendship  is  revealed 
in  the  following  verses  which  he  prevailed  upon  himself  to 
write  in  the  midst  of  the  second  Silesian  war,  a few  weeks 
after  the  bloody  capture  of  Prague**’: 

Wein  und  Liebe 
Bandigt  Helden; 

Wein  und  Liebe 
Macht  Vertrage; 

Wein  und  Liebe 
' Stiftet  Frieden. 

Drum,  o Deutschland, 

Willst  du  Frieden? 

Wein  und  Liebe 
Kann  ihn  stiften. 

That  even  men  of  this  stamp  should  have  appeared  to 
their  contemporaries  regenerators  of  literary  taste,  shows 
in  a most  striking  manner  the  utter  sterility  of  feeling  from 
which  it  was  the  office  of  sentimentalism  and  rationalism 
to  deliver  this  age.  That  they  were  indeed  forerunners, 
on  the  one  hand,  of  Wieland’s  serene  culture,  on  the  othei 
of  the  new  era  of  popular  poetry  which  was  to  set  in  with 


80  I?NL.  XLV,  I,  58  ff.  130  f. 


8*  Id.  226. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  223 


Herder’s  re-discovery  of  the  Volkslied,®*  gives  us  an  idea 
of  the  rapidity  with  which  the  ascending  movement  in 
German  life  of  the  eighteenth  century,  after  it  had  once 
been  started,  rose  to  its  climax. 

One  more  writer  must  be  considered  before  we  reach 
the  time  of  Lessing  and  his  contemporaries:  Christian 
Flirchtegott  Gellert  (1717-69).  It  is  indeed  Gellerttlie 
hard  to  realize  that  there  should  have  been  a typical  repre- 
time when  this  timid  bachelor,  in  whose  profes-  private 
sorial  make-up  there  was  not  a fibre  of  creative  morality, 
genius,  was  the  foremost  of  German  authors.  How  petty 
and  nerveless  is  the  wisdom  taught  in  his  Fables  (1746),  how 
thin  and  weak-lunged  the  praise  of  the  Almighty  sung  in  his 
Spiritual  Odes  (1759),  what  an  utter  lack  of  true  character 
in  his  comedies,®^  how  impossible  the  situations  in  his  one 
novel.®^  Yet,  if  Frederick  the  Great  could  call  Gellert  “ the 
most  sensible  ” of  German  men  of  letters;  if  Goethe  could 
say  of  his  writings  that  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  they  were  the  foundation  of  moral  culture  in  Ger- 
many®*; if  his  popularity  embraced  all  classes  and  ages,  from 
kings  and  princes  who  visited  Leipzig  in  order  to  attend  his 
lectures,  down  to  servant-maids  who  pressed  upon  him  to 
kiss  his  hands,®’ — there  must  have  been  something  in  him 


This  is  especially  true  of  Gleim’s  Preussische  Kriegslieder  von 
einem  Grenadier  (1757.8  ; DNL,  XLV,  i,  241  ff.)>  which,  inspired  as 
they  were  by  the  grand  events  of  the  Seven  Years*  War,  suggest 
indeed  the  tone  of  genuine  popular  lyrics. 

Die  Betschwester  (1745),  Die  kranke  Frau  (1747),  and  others, 
analyzed  by  Muncker,  Bretner  Beitr.^  DNL.  XLIII,  i,  24  ff. 

An  analysis  of  the  Leben  der  schwedischen  Graf  in  von  6^.**  (1746) 
is  given  by  Muncker  /.  c.  30  ff. 

“ C*est  le  plus  raisonnable  de  tous  les  savans  allemans  ** — alleged 
words  of  Frederick’s  after  his  interview  with  Gellert  Dec.  18,  1760; 
Gellert,  Sdmmtl.  Schr.  IX,  16. 

Dichtg  u.  Wahrh.,  book  7,  Werke  XXI,  76. 

Cf.  Biedermann,  Deutschld  im  18.  Jhdt  II,  2,  26  f. 


-^24  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

which  made  him  in  a peculiar  manner  the  representative  of 
his  age. 

Gellert  combined  in  himself,  more  than  any  other  writer 
of  his  time,  those  two  tendencies  which,  as  we  have  seen, 
had  come  to  be  the  chief  forms  of  the  individualistic  under- 
current of  German  literature  after  it  had  turned  away  from 
public  life:  rationalism  and  sentimentalism. 

He  appeals  to  us  either  by  his  humorous  smile  or  his 
sympathetic  tears.  He  dissects  his  own  feelings  as  well  as 
those  of  others.  With  loving  tenderness  he  lingers  over  what- 
ever he  analyzes,  most  tenderly,  however,  over  the  foibles 
and  weaknesses  of  the  human  heart.  God,  the  supreme 
rational  being,  is  to  him  the  highest  object  of  venerating 
contemplation;  but  he  finds  God  not  through  the  medium 
of  an  orthodox  creed  or  a system  of  philosophy,  but  in  his 
own  heart,  in  the  experiences  of  his  fellowman,  and  in 
nature.  In  one  of  his  fables,  he  ridicules  the  superficiality 
of  philosophic  systems  by  telling  the  story  of  a hat.*®  Its 
first  possessor  wore  it  round,  with  the  flaps  turned  down; 
the  second  had  two  of  the  sides  cocked;  the  third  made  a 
three-cornered  hat  of  it;  the  fourth  had  it  dyed;  the  fifth 
turned  it  inside  out;  and  thus,  while  it  remained  one  and 
the  same  hat,  it  appeared  always  new,  and  with  every 
change  it  set  the  fashion  of  the  whole  country — in  short, 
Gellert  concludes:  Es  ging  dem  Hute  fast  wie  der  Philo- 

sophie.’'  In  one  of  his  religious  poems,®®  he  looks  back 
upon  the  day  that  is  just  fading: 


“ How  have  I spent  it?  Did  it  pass  in  vain?  Did  I strive  ear- 
nestly for  the  good  ? Did  I glorify  God  through  zeal  and  diligence 
in  the  vocation  which  He  has  assigned  to  me  ? Did  I benefit  mysell 
and  the  world?  Did  I rule  my  own  heart?  In  the  enjoyment  of  the 
good  things  of  this  world  did  I think  of  the  Almighty,  by  whom 
they  were  created?  And  how  did  my  heart  enjoy  the  sweet  hours  of 
human  intercourse?  Did  I feel  the  bliss  of  friendship?  Did  I speak 


XLIII,  40. 


89  Ib,  234. 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM,  ^2$ 


what  I felt  ? Was  my  earnestness  gentle  and  my  frolic  innocent  ? Did 
I watch  over  my  dear  ones  with  tender  care  ? Did  I lead  them  to  the 
good  by  my  example?  Was  I not  slow  in  the  duties  of  compassion  ? 
Did  I rejoice  in  the  happiness  of  others  ? Did  I repent  a false  step 
as  soon  as  I had  taken  it  ? Did  I battle  down  evil  desires  ? And 
if  God  to-night  should  summon  me,  am  I ready  to  stand  before  Him  ? 

One  of  the  most  graceful  and  delicate  descriptions  of 
rural  life  before  the  days  of  Werther  is  contained  in  a let- 
ter of  Gellert’s/®  relating  his  experiences  as  a guest  on  the 
estate  of  a large  landholder,  which  at  the  same  time  is  a 
striking  example  of  his  happy  way  of  blending  sentimental 
reflectiveness  with  a vein  of  gentle  rationalistic  humour. 
It  reminds  us  of  Chodowiecki’s  subtile  drawings. 

“ I sleep  in  a room/’  he  says,  “looking  on  one  side  into  the  court- 
yard, on  the  other  upon  the  lawn  and  the  field.  Ordinarily  about  six 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  I stand  at  the  window  and  gaze  with  an  insa- 
tiable eye  into  the  autumn  lying  over  field  and  garden.  The  wide  open 
sky,  of  which  we  in  the  city  know  nothing,  is  to  me  from  this  window 
an  altogether  new  spectacle.  Here  I stand  and  forget  myself  for  half 
an  hour  in  looking  and  thinking.  After  these  happy  moments,  still 
intoxicated  with  the  spirit  of  the  morning,  I open  the  door  to  call  for 
a servant.  But,  instead  of  one,  there  appear  at  least  three  at  a time, 
having  run  themselves  out  of  breath  for  my  sake,  and  all  of  them 
bent  on  being  at  my  service.  In  short,  whether  I want  it  or  not,  I 
must  submit  to  being  dressed  by  them.  During  this  occupation,  five 
or  six  gentle  greyhounds  make  their  call,  with  whom  I enter  into  a 
little  conversation,  because  I know  they  won’t  answer  me.  Mean- 
while the  gamekeeper  narrates  to  me  their  feats,  describes  to  me  the 
whole  hunting-ground,  and  expresses  his  regret  that  I am  no  sports- 
man. Because  I have  given  him  several  times  to  understand  that 
one  ought  to  be  charitable  even  to  animals,  he  has  secretly  inquired 
of  my  gracious  hostess  whether  I was  a Pietist. 

“ Now  comes  the  coffee.  I take  a book,  assume  a learned  mien, 
and  at  once  my  servants  flee.  The  books  which  I have  taken  with  me 
are  Terence,  Horace,  and  Gresset.  Would  you  believe  that  I find 
in  these  poets  far  more  beauties  here  in  the  country  than  in  the  city? 
But  why  should  you  wonder?  Here  Nature  herself,  who  inspired 
them,  is  their  interpreter.  And  she  interprets  them,  if  not  as  learn- 


Gellert’r  Sdnuntl.  Schr.  IVj  182  ff. 


226  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


edly,  at  least  more  pleasantly  and  distinctly  than  the  most  renowned 
commentators. 

‘‘When  I have  read  enough,  I pay  my  respects  to  my  gracious 
hostess  and  her  daughter.  I usually  find  them  busy  with  a book  or 
looking  over  accounts  with  the  superintendent.  Everybody  receives 
me  with  kind  smiles;  and  even  the  superintendent,  who  for  twenty 
years  was  a sergeant,  forces  his  grim  face  into  a pleasant  expression. 
During  this  hour  (for  this  is  about  the  length  of  time  that  I spend 
with  my  hostess)  I earn  in  some  sense  the  privilege  of  enjoying  my- 
self on  her  estate:  for  our  conversation  usually  turns  on  the  educa- 
tion of  her  son,  the  hope  of  her  house.  Toward  noon  I sit  in  the 
courtyard;  I ring  with  a little  bell,  and  now  there  comes — who  do  you 
think?  a herd  of  feathered  folk,  shooting  along  on  foot  or  on  the 
wing;  and  I feed  them — chickens,  turkeys,  ducks,  geese,  doves,  all 
in  a heap,  and  count  my  people.  After  this,  I visit  the  partridges 
and  quails  and  the  young  doves  in  their  cot.  A lovely  scene!  Here 
a mother  feeds  her  children,  there  another  is  breeding  a still  hidden 
posterity,  while  her  husband  tries  to  induce  her  to  let  him  take  her 
place  on  the  nest,  and  to  refresh  herself  by  a meal.  First  he  en- 
treats her  gently  and  lovingly,  presently  he  talks  quite  earnestly,  and 
if  this  does  not  make  her  yield,  he  commands  her  in  a lordly,  cockish 
tone,  and  turns  about  ten  times  in  a circle,  as  though  he  would  not 
look  at  her  any  longer,  and  at  the  same  time  would  give  her  a chance 
to  leave  the  nest  unnoticed. 

“ I must  add  an  amusing  incident  which  illustrates  the  church- 
going habits  of  this  region.  They  are  very  tyrannical.  Last  Sunday 
I went  alone  to  church,  because  madame  had  some  guests.  I took 
my  seat,  as  it  chanced,  next  to  a peasant  unknown  to  me.  A student 
ascended  the  pulpit  and  perpetrated  an  awful  sermon  on  the  text  of 
the  lilies  of  the  field.  He  was  so  philosophical  that  he  explained  to 
the  peasants  what  sowing  and  reaping  were.  The  sermon  had  its 
natural  effect  upon  me.  I gently  fell  asleep.  In  this  church,  how- 
ever, you  are  not  at  liberty  to  go  to  sleep  over  a poor  sermon.  My 
neighbour  woke  me  up  with  a rather  sudden  shock,  and  shouted  : ‘ The 
boy  is  coming.’  I didn’t  know  what  he  meant,  and  since  the  preacher 
was  just  demonstrating  with  a passage  from  Cicero  that  no  one  was 
rich  who  could  not  maintain  an  army  from  his  private  fortune,  I 
thought  he  had  aroused  me  on  account  of  this  learned  quotation,  and 
therefore  went  to  sleep  again.  Presently  I awoke  a second  time 
from  quite  a severe  blow,  and  saw  a little  peasant  boy,  with  a long 
stick,  standing  in  front  of  me,  and  nodding  his  head  at  me  reproach- 
fully. Now  I understood  what  my  neighbour  had  meant.  He  had 


THE  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  ABSOLUTISM.  22/ 

warned  me  of  this  boy,  whose  office  it  is  to  run  about  in  the  church 
with  his  lance  and  keep  the  congregation  awake.’’ 

More  emphatically  than  any  other  writer  of  his  time, 
Gellert  was  a private  individual.  In  his  Lectures  on  Moral 
not  a single  word  about  public  or  patriotic  duties  is  to 
be  found.  The  battle  of  Rossbach,  the  first  national  vic- 
tory won  by  a German  army  since  the  days  of  Maximilian, 
an  event  which  sent  a thrill  of  joy  through  the  hearts  of  all 
who  still  hoped  for  a great  future  of  the  German  state, 
aroused  in  Gellert  only  feelings  of  horror  and  human  com- 
passion. “Oh,  that  battle  of  Rossbach!  ” he  writes,®^  “I 
have  lived  through  it,  at  a distance  of  only  a few  miles; 
smitten  with  sickness,  shaken  by  the  roaring  cannonade, 
with  panting  breast  and  shivering  hands,  in  prayer  for  the 
dying, — no,  not  in  prayer,  for  I could  neither  pray  nor  weep, 
sighs  only  were  left  to  me, — thus  I heard  it,  through  four 
long  hours,  heard  it  even  the  day  before  it  began,  in  the 
rattle  of  the  guns  which  thundered  along  under  my  win- 
dow.” If  this  seems  weakness,  let  us  not  forget  that  it 
was  through  this  very  turning  away  from  outer  conditions, 
through  this  very  limitation  to  the  inner  self  that  the  Ger- 
man mind  was  at  that  time  preparing  for  a new  era  of 
national  greatness.  And  Gellert,  by  making  self-reflection 
and  self-discipline  the  keynote  of  his  life  as  well  as  his  lit- 
erary work,  did  more  than  any  other  man  of  his  generation 
to  cultivate  that  spirit  which  was  to  find  its  highest  expres- 
sion in  Goethe's  Wilhebn  Meister. 


Printed  Sdmmil.  Schr,  VI  and  VII. 


**  Biedermann  /.  c.  52. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND 
THE  HEIGHT  OF  ENLIGHTENMENT. 


(The  Third  Quarter  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.) 

Schiller,  in  the  poem  Die  deutsche  Muse^  points  with 
just  pride  to  the  independent  character  of  modern  German 
German  lite-  literature.  No  princely  favours,  he  says,  were 
Fredwick^^^^  bestowed  upon  it;  no  Augustus,  no  Medici  fos- 
Great.  tered  it;  the  greatest  German  of  his  time,  Fred- 

erick of  Prussia,  had  no  place  for  it  at  his  court 


Von  dem  grdssten  deutschcn  Sohne, 
Von  des  grossen  Friedrichs  Throne 
Ging  sie  schutzlos,  ungeehrt. 
Riihmend  darf’s  der  Deutsche  sagen, 
Hdher  darf  das  Herz  ihm  schlagen: 
Selbst  erschuf  er  sich  den  Wert. 


However  true  this,  generally  speaking,  is,  Goethe  was 
equally  right  when  he  declared  that  the  heroic  struggle  of 
Frederick  the  Great  in  the  Seven  Years’  War  added  a new 
and  higher  life  to  German  literature;  and  Kant  was  right 
when  he  designated  ^ the  intellectual  epoch  from  which  he 
himself  had  sprung  as  the  age  of  Frederick  the  Great. 


I.  The  Enlightened  Absolutism. 

There  is  a strange  and  somewhat  melancholy  fascination 
in  imagining  what  would  have  been  the  aspect  of  modern 


* SdmmtL  Schr,,  Hist.-Krit.  Ausg,  (Goedeke)  XI,  329. 
Dichtg  u.  Wahrh,  b,  7 ; Werke  Hempel  XXI,  62. 

• Was  ist  Aufkldrung?  \ Werke  Gd.  Hartenstein  IV,  166. 

228 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  22g 


German  civilization  if  Frederick,  instead  of  throwing 
the  weight  of  his  mighty  personality  into  the 
balance  of  monarchical  absolutism,  could  have  theoretical 
stood  for  the  cause  of  popular  freedom.  That  h^e^alism, 
his  own  convictions  pointed  in  this  direction,  there  can  be 
little  doubt.  It  reads  like  a passage  from  Rousseau's  Con- 
trat  Social^  when,  in  his  first  political  pamphlet,  the  Con- 
sider atiojis  sur  Vetat  du  corps  politique  de  V Europe^  he  says^: 
‘‘  The  princes  must  be  made  to  know  that  tbeir  false  max- 
ims are  the  poisonous  fountain-head  whence  flow  all  the 
evils  that  are  the  curse  of  Europe.  Most  princes  are  of  the 
opinion  that  God,  solely  from  regard  for  their  own  great- 
ness, happiness,  and  vanity,  has  created  those  masses  of 
men  whose  welfare  has  been  entrusted  to  them,  and  that 
their  subjects  have  no  other  purpose  but  to  be  the  instru- 
ments of  princely  passions.  Hence  their  desire  of  false 
glory,  their  wild  ambition  for  usurping  everything,  the  weight 
of  the  taxes  with  which  they  burden  the  people;  hence 
their  laziness,  arrogance,  injustice,  and  tyranny;  hence  all 
those  vices  with  which  they  degrade  human  nature.  If  the 
princes  would  rid  themselves  of  this  fundamental  error  and 
seriously  reflect  upon  the  aim  and  purpose  of  their  power, 
they  would  find  that  their  rank  and  dignity,  which  they  are 
so  jealously  guarding,  are  solely  the  gift  of  the  people  ; that 
these  thousands  of  men  entrusted  to  them  have  by  no  means 
made  themselves  the  slaves  of  a single  individual  in  order  to 
render  him  all  the  more  formidable  and  powerful  ; that  they 
have  not  submitted  to  one  of  their  fellow-citizens  in  order  to 
become  a prey  to  his  arbitrary  caprices,  but  that  they  have 
elected  from  their  midst  the  one  whom  they  expected  to  be 
the  most  just  and  benevolent  ruler,  the  most  humane  in  re- 
lieving distress,  the  bravest  in  warding  off  enemies,  the 


^ (Euvres  VIII,  35  f. — Cf.  for  the  following  Hettner,  Gesch,  d.  d. 
Lit.  i,  Jhdt  II,  14  ff.  Freytag’s  Bilder  IV,  220  ff.  Treitschke, 
D,  Gesch.  i.  i(^.  Jhdt  I,  49  ff.  Hillebrand,  German  Thought p.  52  ff. 


230  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

wisest  in  avoiding  destructive  wars,  the  most  capable  of 
successfully  maintaining  the  public  authority.*'  Not  even 
Montesquieu  has  more  emphatically  pointed  out  the  great- 
ness of  English  parliamentary  life  than  Frederick,  in  the 
following  passage  of  his  Antimachiavel‘^\  “It  seems  to  me 
that,  if  there  is  a form  of  government  which  may  be  held 
up  as  a model  for  our  days,  it  is  the  English.  There,  par- 
liament is  the  supreme  judge  both  of  the  people  and  the 
king,  while  the  king  has  full  power  of  doing  good,  but 
none  of  doing  evil."  And  Americans  ought  not  to  forget 
that  Frederick  most  heartily  welcomed  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,^  and  that  his  government  was  among  the 
very  first  to  enter  into  relations  of  commercial  reciprocity 
with  the  United  States.® 

Furthermore,  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  intellectual 
classes  all  over  Germany  would  have  hailed  no  event  with 
greater  unanimity  and  enthusiasm  than  any  steps  which 
Frederick  might  have  taken  toward  granting  his  subjects 
a share,  however  limited,  in  the  management  of  public  af- 
fairs. Most  of  the  great  German  thinkers  and  poets,  from 
Klopstock  to  Kant  and  Schiller,  were  at  heart  republicans. 
Great  as  was  the  stimulus  which  their  admiration  of  Fred- 
erick imparted  to  their  works,  it  would  have  been  a hundred 
times  greater  if  they  could  have  sympathized  with  his  meth- 
ods of  government.  As  in  the  time  of  the  Reformation, 
there  was  again  a chance  for  the  kindling  of  a mighty  flame 
of  popular  freedom,  which,  nourished  and  propagated  by  the 
best  and  noblest  of  the  educated  classes,  might  have  swept 
from  one  end  of  Germany  to  the  other,  burying  the  hun- 
dreds of  petty  tyrants  in  a gigantic  conflagration,  and  weld- 


* (Euvres  VIII,  125.  255. 

® Ib.  XXIII,  353.  That  Frederick’s  friendly  feeling  toward  the 
United  States  was  at  least  partly  due  to  his  resentment  of  the  faith- 
less policy  pursued  toward  him  by  the  English,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
® Cf.  W.  Oncken,  D,  Zeitalter  Friedr,  d,  Grossen  II,  838  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  23 1 


ing  the  hundreds  of  lifeless  embryonic  states  into  one  free, 
united  people.’ 

We  may  regret  that  nothing  of  this  kind  happened.  But 
it  is  only  due  to  historic  truth  to  say  that,  if  ever  a similar 
vision  had  flitted  across  Frederick  s mind,  which 
it  probably  did  not,  he  would  at  once  have  con- 
signed  it  to  the  region  of  empty  dreams.  Reared 
in  the  atmosphere  of  military  paternalism;  placed  upon  the 
throne  of  a state  whose  policy  from  its  earliest  times  had 
had  unscrupulous  aggrandizement  and  centralization  for 
its  chief  maxim;  called  upon  to  defend  the  very  existence 
of  this  state  in  a deadly  struggle  of  seven  years  against  the 
combined  forces  of  more  than  half  of  Europe,  he  could  not 
fail  to  become  convinced  of  the  absolute  necessity  of  auto- 
cratic methods  of  government  for  his  own  country,  and  to 
see  in  the  improvement  and  perfection  of  these  methods 
the  supreme  task  of  his  life. 

Frederick  has  given  to  the  world  the  wonderful  spectacle 

of  an  autocrat  who  acknowledged  himself  a servant  of  the 

people.®  In  1759,  after  the  terrible  defeat  of 

Kunersdorf,  when  Berlin  seemed  to  be  at  the  idea  of 

, . . public  service, 

mercy  of  the  Austrian  and  Russian  armies,  he 

wrote  to  a friend®:  “ I will  throw  myself  in  their  way,  and 
have  them  cut  my  throat,  or  save  the  capital.  Had  I more 
than  one  life,  I would  give  it  up  for  my  fatherland.  Do 
not  think  that  I shall  survive  the  ruin  of  my  country.  I 
have  my  own  way  of  thinking.  I do  not  wish  to  imitate 
either  Sertorius  or  Cato.  I have  no  thought  of  my  fame, 
my  only  thought  is  the  state.’'  Frederick’s  whole  life  bore 
out  the  truth  of  this  sentiment.  He  gave  to  Prussia  an  ad- 
ministration more  efficient  and  more  just  than  existed  in 


■*  That  a similar  attempt  made  by  Joseph  II,  failed,  is  no  proof  that 
Frederick  might  not  have  succeeded. 

® Cf.  CEuvres  IX,  193. 

® Letter  to  the  Marquis  dArgens,  Aug.  16,  1759  ) CEuvres  XIX,  79. 


232  SOCIAL  FOLCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

any  European  country  of  his  time.  He  established,  in 
principle  at  least,  equality  of  all  his  subjects  before  the 
law.  He  made  the  unrestricted  liberty  of  religious  belief 
and  philosophical  thought  a fundamental  principle  of  legis- 
lation.^® He  delivered  Germany  from  the  curse  of  princely 
libertinism,  which  for  more  than  a century  had  been  gnaw- 
ing at  the  very  root  of  her  national  life.  In  a word,  he 
gave  the  sanction  of  the  state  to  that  protest  against  arbi- 
trary despotism  which  we  have  seen  to  be  the  motive 
power  in  German  intellectual  life  during  the  preceding 
epoch.  In  this  sense  he  stood  indeed  for  the  cause  of 
freedom. 

This  dualism  in  the  political  attitude  of  Frederick  the 
Great,  which  was  more  or  less  imitated  by  all  the  other 
Dualism  in  German  princes  of  the  time,  gave  to  the  lit- 
modernGer-  erature  of  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
ture.  century  its  most  distinguishing  feature.  Still 

debarred,  on  the  one  hand,  from  practical  participation  in 
public  life;  favoured,  on  the  other,  with  a large  degree  of 
freedom  in  theoretical  belief  and  speculation;  spurred  on 
by  the  sight  of  a great  hero  and  wonderful  military  achieve- 
ments, the  German  men  of  thought  and  culture  now  more 
fervently  than  ever  turned  to  the  cultivation  of  the  ideal, 
and  by  holding  up  to  their  countrymen  the  image  of  a world 
of  beauty,  truth,  and  perfection  helped  to  engender  that 
craving  for  the  realization  of  ideal  demands  in  national 
institutions  which,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  has  created 
the  German  state. 

Four  literary  generations,  succeeding  each  other  in  close 
continuity  and  covering  the  period  from  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
from  within  century,  co-operated  in  this  work  of  regene- 
its  keynote.  rating  the  national  body  by  imparting  a new  life 
to  the  national  mind:  (i)  The  contemporaries  of  Frederick 


Cf.  Hettner  /.  c.  27  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  233 


the  Great  himself;  (2)  the  contemporaries  of  the  French 
Revolution;  (3)  the  contemporaries  of  the  Napoleonic 
wars;  (4)  the  forerunners  of  the  Revolution  of  1848.  Our 
present  task  is  a consideration  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
first  of  these  epochs. 


2.  Klopstock. 

It  was  in  1748,  the  same  year  in  which  Frederick,  in  the 
peace  of  Aix-Ia-Chapelle,  achieved  his  first  great  political 
triumph,  that  Friedrich  Gottlieb  Klopstock  Klopstock’s 
(1724-1803),  in  the  three  opening  cantos  of  his 
Messtasj  sounded  that  morning  call  of  joyous  Werther, 
idealism  and  exalted  individualism  which  was  to  be  the 
dominant  note  of  the  best  in  all  modern  German  literature. 
No  one  has  more  vividly  described  the  magic  spell  which 
the  name  of  Klopstock  exercised  upon  all  aspiring  minds 
of  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  than  Goethe  in  The 
Sorrows  of  Werther,  In  his  account  of  the  garden-party 
where  Lotte  for  the  first  time  danced  with  him,  and  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  set  his  whole  being  aflame,  Werther 
relates  among  other  incidents  the  disturbance  created  by  a 
sudden  thunderstorm.  The  company  scatters;  Werther 
and  Lotte  are  fortunate  enough  to  meet  alone.  When  the 
worst  of  the  storm  is  over,  they  step  to  a window.  “ In  the 
distance,”  these  are  his  own  wordsd‘  ‘‘  the  thunder  was  dying 
away,  a glorious  rain  fell  gently  upon  the  land,  and  the 
most  refreshing  perfume  arose  to  us  out  of  the  fulness  of 
the  warm  air.  She  stood  leaning  upon  her  elbow;  her 
glance  penetrated  the  distance,  she  looked  heavenward,  and 
upon  me;  I saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears;  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  mine,  and  said — Klopstock!  I at  once  remembered 
the  beautiful  ode  which  was  in  her  mind,  and  lost  myself 
in  the  torrent  of  emotions  which  rushed  over  me  with  this 


Die  Leiden  d.  jungen  Wert  hers,  letter  of  June  16  ; Werke  XIV,  36. 
Die  Fruhlingsfeier  ; DNL.  XL VI I,  104  ff. 


234  SOCIAL  FOLCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


name.  I could  bear  it  no  longer;  I bent  over  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  with  most  blissful  tears/' 

What  was  it  that  gave  Klopstock  his  extraordinary  sway 
over  the  hearts  and  minds  of  his  generation  ? What  was  the 
mission  which  he  was  born  to  fulfil  to  the  German  people  ? 

Klopstock  led  German  literature  from  the  narrow  circle 

of  private  emotions  and  purposes  to  which  the  absolutism 

of  the  seventeenth  century  had  come  near  con- 

Klopstock’s  fining  it,  into  the  broad  realm  of  universal  sym- 
mission.  1 

pathy.  He  was  the  first  great  freeman  since  the 
days  of  Luther.  He  did  not,  like  Haller,  content  himself 
with  the  sight  of  an  independent  but  provincial  and  primi- 
tive life,  as  afforded  by  the  rural  communities  of  Switzer- 
land. He  did  not,  like  Gellert,  turn  away  from  the  op- 
pressed and  helpless  condition  of  the  German  people  to  a 
weakly,  exaggerated  cultivation  of  himself.  He  addressed 
himself  to  the  whole  nation,  nay,  to  all  mankind.  And  by 
appealing  to  all  that  is  grand  and  noble;  by  calling  forth 
those  passions  and  emotions  which  link  the  human  to  the 
divine;  by  awakening  the  poor  down-trodden  souls  of  men 
who  thus  far  had  known  themselves  only  as  the  subjects  of 
princes  to  the  consciousness  of  their  moral  and  spiritual  citi- 
zenship, he  became  the  prophet  of  that  invisible  republic 
which  now  for  nearly  a century  and  a half  has  been  the 
ideal  counterpart  in  German  life  of  a stern  monarchical 
reality. 

No  one  perhaps  has  better  expressed  the  limitations  of 
Klopstock’s  genius  than  Schiller,  when  in  trying  to  define 
his  place  among  modern  poets  he  says^^:  ‘‘  His 
msspintnal-  sphere  is  always  the  realm  of  ideas,  and  he 
makes  everything  lead  up  to  the  infinite.  One 
might  say  that  he  robs  everything  that  he  touches  of  its 


Ueber  naive  u.  sentiment.  Dichtg  ; Sdmmtl.  Schr.  X,  473. — The 
best  modern  account  of  Klopstock  is  F.  Muncker’s  Klopstock  : Gesch, 
s.  Lebens  u,  s,  SchrifUn, 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  235 

body  in  order  to  turn  it  into  spirit,  whereas  other  poets 
seek  to  clothe  the  spiritual  with  a body/’  It  is  undoubtedly 
this  lack  of  plastic  power,  this  inability  to  create  living 
palpable  beings,  which  prevented  Klopstock  from  attaining 
the  high  artistic  ideal  which  his  first  great  effusions  seemed 
to  prophesy.  The  older  he  grew,  the  more  he  withdrew 
from  the  actual  world,  the  more  he  surrounded  himself 
with  the  halo  of  superhuman  experiences,  the  more  he 
insisted  on  describing  the  indescribable,  and  expressing  the 
inexpressible;  until  at  last  the  same  man,  whose  first  youthful 
utterances  had  unloosened  mighty  forces  of  popular  pas- 
sion, was  intelligible  only  to  a few  adepts  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  his  artificial,  esoteric  language. 

And  yet  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  was  precisely  through  this 
exaggerated  and  overstrained  spirituality  that  Klopstock 
achieved  the  greatest  of  his  work.  He  would  never  have  pro- 
duced the  marvellous  impression  upon  his  contemporaries 
which  he  did  produce,  had  he  attempted  to  represent  life 
as  it  is.  That  task  had  been  done  by  Moscherosch,  Weise, 
and  their  successors.  What  was  needed  now  was  a higher 
view  of  human  existence,  the  kindling  of  larger  emotions, 
the  pointing  out  of  loftier  aims.  A man  was  needed  who 
should  give  utterance  to  that  religious  idealism  which, 
though  buried  under  the  ruins  of  popular  independence, 
was  nevertheless  the  one  vital  principle  of  Protestantism 
not  yet  extinct;  a man  who,  through  an  exalted  conception 
of  nationality,  should  inspire  his  generation  with  a new 
faith  in  Germany’s  political  future;  a man  who,  by  virtue  of 
his  own  genuine  sympathy  with  all  that  is  human  in  the 
noblest  sense,  and  through  his  unwavering  belief  in  the  high 
destiny  of  mankind,  should  usher  in  a new  era  of  enlight- 
ened cosmopolitanism.  It  was  Klopstock’s  spirituality 
which  enabled  him  to  assume  this  threefold  leadership,  and 
the  immeasurable  services  rendered  by  him  in  this  capacity 
to  the  cause  of  religion,  fatherland,  and  humanity  may  well 


236  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


The  Messiasi 


make  us  forget  the  artistic  shortcomings  by  which  they 
were  accompanied. 

None  of  Klopstock’s  works  has  been  so  much  subjected 
to  misleading  and  unappreciative  criticism  as  his  greatest 
religious  poem,  the  Messias.  Let  us  admit 
at  the  outset  that  in  this  seeming  epic  nearly 
all  the  most  essential  epic  qualities  are  lacking.  Real- 
ity in  events,  clearness  of  motive,  naturalness  of  char- 
acter, directness  of  style,  all  these  are  things  for  which, 
in  most  parts  of  the  poem,  we  look  in  vain.  Through- 
out its  twenty  cantos  we  constantly  circle  between  heaven, 
hell,  and  earth,  without  at  any  given  moment  seeming 
to  know  where  we  are.  Christ’s  passion  and  death,  the 
central  action  of  the  work,  is  robbed  of  its  human  inter- 
est through  the  over-anxious  desire  of  the  poet  to  exalt 
the  divine  nature  of  the  Saviour,  and  to  represent  the 
atonement  as  predetermined  in  the  original  plan  of  cre- 
ation. The  countless  hosts  of  angelic  and  satanic  spir- 
its which  hover  before  us  in  endless  space  are  for  the  most 
part  without  individual  features.  Even  the  human  sympa- 
thizers and  adversaries  of  the  Son  of  God  play  their  parts 
more  by  portentous  looks,  unutterable  thoughts,  effusive 
prayer,  or  mysterious  silence,  than  by  straightforward  action. 

But  what  do  all  these  criticisms  mean  ? They  simply 
mean  that  it  was  a mistake  in  Klopstock’s  admirers  to  call 

, . him  a German  Milton,  and  that  the  Messias 

Not  an  epic,  ’ 

but  an  ora-  ought  not  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  epic  poem  at 
torio.  Milton,  but  the  great  German  com- 

posers of  church  music  were  Klopstock’s  spiritual  prede- 
cessors; his  place  is  by  the  side  of  Bach  and  Handel  as 
the  third  great  master  of  the  oratorio.** 

The  three  most  important  parts  of  an  oratorio,  outside  of 
the  orchestral  accompaniment,  are:  the  recitative,  the  arias, 
the  choruses.  In  a religious  oratorio,  such  as  Bach’s  Pas- 


Cf.  Julian  Schmidt,  Gesch,  d.  d.  Litt.  sHt  Leibniz  II,  237. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  237 


sio^i  Music,  or  Handers  Alessiah,  the  recitative  is  in  the  main 
confined  to  the  narrative  passages  of  the  gospels  epic, 
and  to  the  words  of  single  persons  introduced  lyric,  and 
in  them.  The  chorus  performs  a double  task.  meXofttr 
Either  it  represents  groups  of  persons  taking  oratorio, 
part  in  the  action  itself,  as,  for  instance,  the  body  of  the 
disciples  or  the  Jewish  populace;  or  it  is  conceived  of  as  a 
collective  spectator,  giving  utterance  to  the  feelings  and 
emotions  which  the  suffering,  death,  and  triumph  of  the 
Saviour  cannot  help  arousing  in  the  mass  of  believers.  In 
the  arias,  finally,  these  same  feelings  of  compassion  and  ado- 
ration are  expressed;  not,  however,  as  emanating  from  the 
whole  of  the  Christian  community,  but  from  the  individual 
human  soul.  In  other  words,  the  oratorio  is  a combination 
of  an  epic  element,  represented  by  the  recitative,  with  lyric 
and  dramatic  elements,  represented  by  aria  and  chorus. 
And  if  we  may  liken  it  as  a whole  to  a festive  garland 
wound  around  the  altar  of  the  Most  High,  it  is  clear  that  in 
this  comparison  the  recitative  corresponds  to  the  slender 
stems  and  branches  which,  strung  together  and  intertwined 
with  each  other,  form  a gentle  line  of  even  colour  running 
through  it  all,  while  the  arias  and  choruses  cluster  around 
it  like  variegated  masses  of  exuberant  foliage. 

Klopstock’s  Messias,  like  the  oratorio,  consists  of  epic, 

lyric,  and  dramatic  elements.  Of  these,  the  epic  element 

corresponds  to  what  the  recitative  is  in  the 

^ . The  same  ele- 

oratorio.  It  is  the  background  of  the  whole,  mentsinthe 

it  forms  a connecting  link  between  the  other  ^essias. 
parts,  but  in  itself  it  would  be  incomplete.  Only  in  the  lyric 
and  dramatic  passages,  those  passages  which  correspond  to 
the  arias  and  choruses  of  the  oratorio,  does  the  poem  rise 
to  its  height;  only  here  is  the  full  splendour  of  Klopstock’s 
musical  genius  revealed. 

The  time  will  certainly  come  when  even  the  narrative 
part  of  the  Messias  will  again,  as  in  Goethe’s  youth,  find 
readers  willing  to  let  themselves  be  carried  along  by 


238  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

its  powerful  and  sonorous,  though  sometimes  monotonous, 
flow  of  oratory.  Nothing  could  be  grander 
and,  at  the  same  time,  simpler  than  the  general 
outline  of  the  poem.  How,  from  the  scene  in 
the  first  canto,  where  Christ  on  the  Mount  of  Olives  conse- 
crates himself  to  the  work  of  redemption,  we  are  led 
through  the  councils  of  heaven  and  hell,  through  Gethse- 
mane  and  Golgotha,  to  the  Resurrection  and  Ascension, 
until  at  last  “the  living  heavens  rejoice  and  sing  about  the 
throne,  and  a gleam  of  love  irradiates  the  whole  universe,” 

— all  this  is  nobly  planned. 

Nor  is  there  a lack  of  individual  scenes  full  of  inner  life 
and  divine  fire.  What  an  air  of  sublime  mystery  and  awe 
lingers  over  the  lonely  night  spent  by  Jesus  on  the  Mount 
of  Olives  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem.^®  In  the  distance 
there  glimmers  around  him  the  light  of  sacrifices,  flaming, 
to  appease  the  Deity,  on  high  Moriah.  John,  his  beloved 
disciple,  ascends  with  him,  but  stops  half-way,  remaining  in 
prayer  at  the  sepulchres  of  the  prophets.  Gabriel,  the  arch- 
angel, from  a grove  near  the  summit,  sees  Jesus  coming 
and  addresses  him  with  words  of  admiration.  Jesus  passes 
by,  answering  him  only  with  a look  of  tenderness  and  mercy. 
He  reaches  the  summit  and  stands  in  God's  presence.  He 
prays.  He  recalls  how  in  the  solitude  of  eternity,  ere  the 
cherubim  and  seraphim  were  formed,  he  and  the  Father 
were  together;  how  they  saw  the  future  destiny  of  the 
world,  the  sin  and  fall  of  man,  and  how  he  then  resolved  to 
accomplish  through  his  own  death  the  work  of  redemption. 
“ Oh  earth,  how  wast  thou,  before  my  humiliation  in  this 
human  form,  my  chosen,  my  beloved  object!  and  thou.  Oh 
Canaan,  sacred  land,  how  oft  has  my  compassionate  eye 
been  cast  on  thee!  ” Now  he  is  ready  to  fulfil  his  work.  He 


Words  of  Goethe’s,  Dichtg  u.  Wahrh,  b.  10  ; Werke  XXI,  170. 
Der  Messias  ed.  Hamel  (DNL.  XLVII,  i.  2),  can^o  I,  43  ff.  Cf. 
the  prose  transl.  by  Joseph  Collyer,  Boston  1811. 


THE  AGE  OE  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  239 


lifts  his  head  to  the  heavens  and  his  hand  to  the  clouds, 
and  vows  that  he  will  redeem  mankind.  And  the  Eternal 
Father  raises  his  head  above  the  highest  heavens,  and 
stretches  his  hand  through  the  immensity  of  space,  and 
vows  that  he  will  forgive  the  sins  of  the  repentant  children 
of  men. 

While  the  Eternal  Ones  thus  spake,  all  nature  shook.  Souls, 
just  emerging  from  non-existence,  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  think, 
trembled,  and  first  experienced  sensation.  The  Seraphim  were  over- 
whelmed with  awe,  like  the  earth  when  she  expects  an  approaching 
tempest.  A sweet  delight  and  intoxicating  sense  of  eternal  life 
entered  the  souls  of  future  Christians.  But  the  satanic  spirits,  sense- 
less and  in  despair,  fell  from  their  thrones,  the  deep  broke  under 
them,  and  lowest  hell  resounded.” 

What  a brilliancy  of  oratorical  diction  and  invention 
there  is  in  the  scene  where  Christ,  after  his  resurrection, 
holds  judgment  on  Mount  Tabor  over  the  souls  of  those 
who  have  recently  died!  Among  them  the  souls  of  war- 
riors and  those  of  infants  are  contrasted.^^ 

There  had  been  a battle.  Below,  in  the  silent  fields,  there  lay 
the  dead  and  the  dying;  like  thunderclouds  their  spirits  streamed 
Upward,  with  them  the  leaders  of  the  two  armies, — both  unscrupulous 
conquerors.  The  Judge  of  the  world  lifted  his  right  hand,  thunders 
crashed  upon  the  two  great  criminals,  the  traitors  to  humanity, 
echoing  long  and  low  as  they  were  hurled  down  to  hell;  and  from 
hell  there  came  the  sound  of  curses  and  scourging,  the  warriors 
slaughtered  on  the  field  of  battle  rising  against  their  masters  to 
chastise  them. — But  now,  with  the  whisper  of  angelic  harps,  there 
arose  melodies  of  sweetest  joy.  For  earthless  there  came,  from 
Ganges  and  Rhine,  from  Niagara  and  Nile,  souls  of  children  flying 
to  Mount  Tabor,  as  lambs  nourished  by  the  spring  sport  on  the 
hillside.  And  the  Judge  judged  not.  From  star  to  star  they  were 
led,  encircled  by  the  dance  of  the  joyful  hours;  and  they  learned 
many  wonders  until,  changed  into  heavenly  youths,  holier  realms 
they  entered.” 

Or,  to  select  a passage  of  less  fanciful  imagery,  what 


” Canto  YK\,  307  ff. 


240  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

could  surpass  in  graceful  delineation  and  true  poetic  feeling 
the  description  of  the  beautiful  morning  on  lake  Tiberias 
when  the  risen  Christ  appears  to  his  disciples! 

Herauf  war  die  Morgendammrung  gestiegen, 

Und  den  Strahl  des  werdenden  Tages  milderte  lichter 
Nebel,  ein  Schleier,  aus  Glanz  und  weissem  Dufte  gewebet. 

Ruh'  war  auf  die  Gefild’  umher,  sanftatmende  Stille 
Ausgegossen.  Ein  Nachen  entglitt  da  langsamsichtbar 
Voll  von  Freunden  dem  lieblichen  Duft  des  werdenden  Tages, 

Nackt  bei  dem  iiberhangenden  Netz  stand  vorn  in  dem  Nachen 

Kephas.  Es  sassen  umher,  mit  silberhaarigem  Haupte 

Bartholomaus,  Lebbaus,  gelehnt  auf  ein  Ruder,  mit  vollem 

FreudeglSnzenden  Blicke  der  Zwilling,  mit  ISchelnder  Heitre 

Selbst  Nathanael,  sassen  die  Zebed^iden,  Jakobus 

Mit  den  Gedanken  im  Himmel,  Johannes  beirn  Herrn  auf  der  Erde, 

Da  sie  n3,her  heran  zu  dem  Ufer  kommen,  erbiicken 

Sie  den  Mittler,  allein  sie  erkennen  ihn  nicht;  doch  verehren 

Sie  den  ernsten  Fremdling,  der  dort  des  Morgens,  in  sanfte 

Ruhe  versenkt,  und  seiner  Gedanken  sich  freuet. 

It  is  evident  from  these  examples,  which  might  easily  be 
multiplied,  that  even  that  part  of  the  Messias  which  is 
closest  to  the  narrative  of  the  gospels  is  by  no  means  the 
dreary  and  tiresome  waste  which  popular  prejudice  and 
pragmatic  criticism  have  made  it  out  to  be.  Looked  upon 
as  the  recitative  element  of  a musical  composition,  it  ap- 
pears to  fulfil  a perfectly  legitimate  function,  that  of  trans- 
porting the  hearer  into  the  loftier  realm  of  supernatural 
experiences,  and  of  forming  with  its  vague,  shadowy  sounds 
a background  for  the  richer  notes  of  the  lyric  and  dramatic 
passages  of  the  poem. 

For  the  most  part,  these  passages  are  so  closely  inter- 
woven with  the  narrative  itself  that  it  is  impossible  to  con- 
The  lyric  ele-  sider  them  separately.  This  is,  for  instance, 
ment,  Com-  case  with  the  poetic  images  and  compari- 

pansonsc  ^ . 

Episodes.  sons.  Klopstock  s most  impressive  compari- 
sons are  not  epic,  they  do  not  serve  to  make  a certain 


Canto  XIX,  268  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  24 1 


part  of  the  narrative,  by  which  they  were  suggested, 
more  graphic  and  tangible;  they  are  lyrical,  they  lead 
out  of  the  reality  of  the  narrative  into  a realm  of 
deeper  emotions  and  higher  experiences;  they  can  be  fully 
appreciated  only  when  conceived  of  as  uttered  in  song. 
Christ  is  represented  standing  before  Herod,  as  divine 
Providence  called  before  the  tribunal  of  reprobate  scep- 
tics.^® Mary  hastens  to  meet  her  Son,  as  a noble  thought 
soars  toward  heaven.®®  Gabriel,  finding  the  Saviour  asleep 
on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  gazes  on  his  peaceful,  benign 
countenance  with  rapt  veneration,®’  as  a travelling  seraph 
views  the  dim  face  of  the  blooming  earth  on  a spring  night, 
when  the  evening  star  stands  high  in  the  lonely  heaven  and 
beckons  to  the  pensive  sage  to  gaze  at  him  from  the  dusky 
grove.* * **'  The  same  must  be  said  of  the  many  digressions 
and  episodes.  They  also  do  not  to  any  considerable  extent 
heighten  the  reality  of  events,  but  they  do  heighten,  perhaps 
more  than  anything  else,  the  effect  of  the  poem  as  a lyrical 
expression  of  a fervent  and  exalted  spirituality.  Take  as  a 
typical  example  two  scenes  in  which  one  of  the  most  pow- 
erful of  Klopstock’s  characters  appears:  Abbadona,  the 
fallen  angel,  who,  in  the  service  of  Satan,  longs  for  the  inno- 
cence and  happiness  of  his  former  existence.  The  first 
scene  is  in  the  hellish  assembly  where  Satan  discloses  his 
plan  of  putting  the  Messiah  to  death.®®  Abbadona  is  sit- 
ting by  himself,  far  away  from  Satan's  throne,  in  gloomy 
solitude,  lost  in  thoughts  of  the  past,  especially  of  his 
friendship  with  Abdiel,  the  exalted  seraph,  who  on  the  day 
of  Satan's  revolt  deserted  the  ranks  of  the  reprobate  and 
returned  to  God.  Abbadona  was  near  escaping  with  that 
heroic  seraph;  but  surrounded  with  the  rapid  chariots  of 
Satan  and  the  furious  bands  of  those  who  fell  from  their 

Canto  VII,  553  ff.  Cf.  Erich  Schmidt,  Charakieristiken  p.  133  f. 

*0  Canto  IV,  919.  Canto  I,  541  ff. 

**  Canto  II,  627  ff.  Cf.  The  Seven  First  Cantos  of  the  Messiah,  tr/s, 
into  English  Verse^  London,  1826. 


242  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

allegiance,  he  drew  back,  and  though  Abdiel,  with  looks 
of  menacing  love,  strove  to  hasten  his  escape  from  the  rebel 
hosts,  inebriated  and  dazzled  by  the  delusive  prospect  of 
his  future  godhead,  he  no  longer  followed  the  once  powerful 
glance  of  his  friend,  but  suffered  himself  to  be  carried  in 
triumph  to  Satan. 

Now  mournfully  he  sits 
Engross’d  in  thought,  and  muses  o’er  the  scenes 
Of  youth  and  innocence,  the  morning  fair 
Of  his  creation,  when  to  life  and  light 
Abdiel  and  he,  at  God’s  first  call,  had  sprung 
Together  forth.  In  ecstasy  exclaim’d 
Each  to  the  other,  “Who  are  we?  Oh  say 
How  long  hast  thou  been  here  ? ” In  dazzling  beams 
Then  shone  the  distant  glory  of  the  Lord 
With  rays  of  blessing  on  them;  round  they  look’d 
And  saw  innumerable  multitudes 
Of  bright  immortals  near;  and  soon  aloft, 

Uprais’d  by  silvery  clouds,  were  they  convey’d 
To  the  Almighty  Presence. 

Abbadona,  tortured  by  these  reminiscences,  bursts  into  a 
torrent  of  tears,  and  now  resolves  to  oppose  the  blasphem- 
ous speech  of  Satan  calling  for  the  death  of  the  Messiah. 
Thrice  he  attempts  to  speak,  but  his  sighs  stop  his  utterance. 
“ Thus,  when  in  a bloody  battle  two  brothers  are  mortallv 
wounded  by  each  other’s  hand,  at  last,  each  to  the  other 
being  mutually  known,  they  are  unable  to  speak,  and  sighs 
only  proceed  from  their  dying  lips.” 

The  other  scene  is  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane.^®  Ab- 
badona has  gone  in  search  of  the  Saviour,  led  by  an  in- 
stinctive though  distrustful  hope  of  his  own  redemption. 
Through  every  desert  has  he  roved,  every  river  has  he 
traced  from  its  source,  in  the  solitude  of  every  sequestered 
grove  his  trembling  feet  have  wandered.  To  the  cedar  he 
has  said:  Oh  tell  me,  in  rustling  whispers  tell  me,  dost  thou 


Canto  V,  485-^33« 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  243 


conceal  him?*'  To  the  towering  mountains  he  has  cried: 
Bow  down  your  solitary  tops  to  my  tears,  that  I may  see 
the  divine  Jesus,  who,  perhaps,  sleeps  on  your  summits!  ** 
But  he  feels  that  he  is  unworthy  to  see  his  face.  O 
Jesus,  thou  art  the  Saviour  only  of  men!  Me  thou  wilt  not 
save!  **  Lost  in  these  thoughts,  he  enters  the  grove,  where 
he  finds  Christ  in  the  agony  of  his  final  resolve,  and  sud- 
denly he  is  struck  with  the  resemblance  of  this  man  lying 
there  prone  in  the  dust  to  the  mighty  Son  of  God,  who  at 
the  head  of  the  heavenly  hosts  once  hurled  Satan  and  him 
to  hell. 

0 thou  who  yonder  dost  contend  with  death. 

Who  art  thou?  Com’st  thou  from  the  dust?  A son 
Of  that  dishonour’d  earth  which  bears  God’s  curse. 

And,  ripe  for  judgment,  trembling  waits  the  day 
Of  dissolution  ? Com’st  thou  from  her  dust? 

Yes!  Human  is  thy  form!  But  majesty 
Divine  around  it  beams!  Thy  lofty  eye 
Speaks  higher  language  than  of  graves  and  death! 

Ha!  trace  I not  tremendous  likeness  there  ? 

Cease,  boding  terror!  Death  eternal,  cease 
To  shake  my  shudd’ring  soul!  But  yes!  Ah,  yes! 

1 trace  resemblance  to  the  Son  of  God! 

To  him  who  erst,  borne  on  the  flaming  wheels 
Of  his  red  chariot,  from  Jehovah’s  throne 
Thund’ring  pursued  us! 

Once,  but  once,  I turned 
My  trembling  head  behind  in  wild  affright. 

Saw  the  tremendous  Son,  caught  the  dread  eye 
Of  him  who  wielded  thunder!  High  he  stood 
Above  his  burning  car;  midnight’s  deep  gloom 
Lay  stretch’d  beneath  his  feet;  below  was  death! 

Omnipotent  he  came. — Woe,  woe  is  me!  Ah,  then 
The  whirl  of  his  avenging  sword,  the  sound 
Of  his  swift  thunderbolt  with  deaf’ning  din 
Affrighted  nature  shook!  I saw  no  more. 

In  night  my  eyes  were  seal’d;  plunging  I sunk 
Through  storm  and  whirlwind,  through  the  doleful  cries 
Of  scar’d  creation,  fainting  in  despair; 


^44  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE 


Yet  was  immortal!  Lo,  I see  him  now! 

E*en  now  I view  his  likeness  in  the  form 
Of  yonder  man,  who,  prostrate  on  the  ground* 

Lies  there!  Is  he — ah,  can  he  be  the  great, 

The  promis’d  Saviour? 

Thus  far  we  have  been  considering  scenes  in  which  the 

lyric  element  is  intimately  connected  and  interwoven  with 

..  , the  narrative.  But  it  is  not  in  these  alone  that 

Airs  and  re-  . . 

sponsive  Klopstock's  lynco-dramatic  fervour  asserts  itself, 
chants.  Again  and  again,  from  the  first  canto  to  the  last, 

it  forces  its  way,  as  it  were,  with  elemental  power  through 
the  epic  narrative,  and  assumes  a form  of  its  own.^^  Some- 
times it  is  the  poet  himself  who  in  rapturous  song  gives 
vent  to  his  religious  enthusiasm,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
poem,*®  where  he  calls  upon  his  immortal  soul  to  sing  the 
redemption  of  mankind;  or  at  the  opening  of  the  eleventh 
canto,*®  where  he  girds  himself  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of 
the  Resurrection: 

“If  in  my  religious  flight  I have  not  sunk  too  low,  but  have 
poured  sublime  sensations  into  the  hearts  of  the  redeemed,  guided  by 
the  Almighty,  I have  been  borne  on  eagle’s  wings!  O religion!  I 
have  learned  from  revelation  a sense  of  thy  dignity.  He  who  waits 
not,  with  devout  awe,  by  the  pure  crystal  stream  that  from  the  throne 
flows  among  the  trees  of  life,  may  his  praise,  dispersed  by  the  winds, 
not  reach  mine  ear,  or  if  undispersed,  not  pollute  my  heart!  Ah, 
among  the  dust  had  lain  my  song,  had  not  yon  living  stream  poured 
from  the  New  Jerusalem,  the  city  of  God,  and  thither  turned  its 
course.  Lead  me  still  farther,  thou  guide  invisible,  and  direct  my 
trembling  steps.  The  Son’s  humiliation  have  I sung,  let  me  now 
rise  to  sing  his  glory.  May  I attempt  to  sing  the  Victor’s  triumph, 
the  hills  and  valleys  yielding  forth  their  dead,  and  his  exaltation  to 
the  heaven  of  heavens,  the  throne  of  the  eternal  Father?  O thou. 


^4  Hamel,  DNL.  XLVI,  lyp.  viii,  shows  very  strikingly  that  even 
the  metrical  form  of  the  Messias,  although  having  the  outward  ap- 
pearance of  the  epic  hexameter,  as  a matter  of  fact  consists  of  ‘ free 
rhythms.' 

Canto  I,  I ff. 


Canto  XI,  I ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICIC  THE  GREAT,  245 


to  heaven  raised,  help  me,  help  me  and  those  who  hear  me,  to  bear 
the  terrors  of  thy  glory!'' 

Again  there  are  the  airs  and  responsive  chants  with  which 
angels  and  sacred  men  and  women  accompany  the  central 
action,  softening  its  horrors  and  heightening  its  pathetic 
beauty.  Thus  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  canto, the 
seraph  Eloa,  standing  on  a morning  cloud,  greets  the  dawn 
of  the  day  of  crucifixion  with  a hymn  of  exultant  joy. 
Thus  in  the  tenth  canto,^®  the  prophetesses  Miriam  and 
Deborah,  who  with  Adam,  Eve,  Abraham,  and  other  saints 
and  seers  of  the  Old  Testament  form  a cloud  of  witnesses 
around  the  cross  on  which  Jesus  is  dying,  break  forth  into 
the  following  antiphony; 

Deborah,  O thou,  once  the  most  lovely  of  human  beings!  thou 
who  wast  the  fairest  of  the  sons  of  men!  how  are  thy  features 
changed  by  the  livid  traces  of  death! 

Miriam,  My  heart  is  plunged  into  softest  sorrow,  and  clouds  of 
grief  surround  me.  Yet  still  to  me  he  appears  the  most  beautiful  of 
men,  of  all  creation  the  most  lovely,  fairer  than  the  sons  of  light, 
when  glowing  with  fervour  they  adore  the  Eternal. 

Deborah,  Mourn,  ye  cedars  of  Lebanon,  which  to  the  weary  afford 
a refreshing  shade.  The  sighing  cedar  is  cut  down,  of  the  cedar  is 
formed  his  cross. 

Miriam,  Mourn,  ye  flowers  of  the  vale!  The  thorn-bush  spread  its 
branches  on  the  bank  of  the  silver  stream.  They  have  been  wound 
around  the  head  of  the  Divine  One  as  a crown  of  thorns. 

Deborah,  Unwearied  he  lifted  up  his  hands  to  the  Father  in  behalf 
of  sinners.  His  feet  unv/earied  visited  the  dwellings  of  affliction. 
Now  are  they  pierced  with  cruel  wounds. 

Miriam,  His  divine  brow,  which  he  bowed  here  into  the  dust, 
from  which  ran  mingled  blood  and  sweat,  ah!  how  has  the  crown, 
the  bloody  crown  now  pierced  it! 

Deborah,  Oh,  Miriam!  his  eye  breaks  and  his  life  breathes  hard. 
Soon,  ah!  soon,  will  he  look  his  last  toward  heaven. 

Miriam,  O Deborah!  a mortal  paleness  sits  on  his  faded  cheeks. 
Soon  will  his  divine  head  Sink  to  rise  no  more. 


Canto  VII,  I ff. 


Canto  X,  486  ff. 


246  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Deborah.  Thou  who  shinest  above,  O celestial  Jerusalem,  burst 
into  tears  of  joy.  Soon  will  the  hour  of  affliction  be  past. 

Miriam.  Thou  who  sinnest  below,  O terrestrial  Jerusalem,  burst 
into  tears  of  grief.  For  soon  at  thy  barbarous  hands  will  the  sover- 
eign Judge  require  his  blood. 

Deborah.  The  stars  in  their  courses  stand  still,  and  creation  is 
stricken  dumb  at  the  sufferings  of  her  Creator! — at  the  sufferings  of 
Jesus!  the  everlasting  High  Priest!  the  Redeemer!  the  Prince  of 
Peace! 

Miriam.  The  earth  also  stands  still,  and  from  you  who  dwell  on  the 
earth,  dust  upon  dust,  the  sun  has  withdrawn  his  light.  For  this  is 
Jesus!  The  everlasting  High  Priest!  the  Redeemer!  the  Prince  of 
Peace!  Hallelujah! 


In  the  later  portions  of  the  poem,  finally,  it  is  the  choral 

element  which  carries  everything  before  it.  In  fact,  the 

whole  of  the  last  canto  is  a succession  of  jubi- 

The  choral  choruses,  thronging  about  the  Redeemer, 

element,  , . . , 

as  he  slowly  pursues  his  triumphal  path  through 

the  heavens  until  at  last  he  ascends  the  throne  and  sits  at 

the  right  hand  of  the  Father.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine 

a more  impressive  finale  than  this  bursting  of  the  universe 

into  a mighty  hymn  of  praise  echoing  from  star  to  star,  and 

embracing  the  voices  of  all  zones  and  ages;  and  it  is  indeed 

strange  that  a poet  who  was  capable  of  such  visions  as  these 

should  have  been  taken  to  task  by  modern  critics  for  not 

having  confined  himself  more  closely  to  the  representation  of 

actual  conditions. 

If  in  the  Messias  we  see  the  crowning  poetic  manifesta- 
tion of  the  religious  idealism  of  the  German  people  which 
in  the  period  preceding  Klopstock  had  found 

Klopstocks  expression  in  the  emotional  individualism  of 

otii6r  worki  , r 1 

the  hymn-writers  of  the  seventeenth  century, 

the  pietistic  godliness  of  Spener  and  Francke,  the  colossal 

musical  compositions  of  Bach  and  Handel,  we  find  the 

chief  importance  of  Klopstock’s  other  works  in  their  rela- 


Especially  Scherer,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  p.  424. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  247 

tion  to  the  national  and  cosmopolitan  sentiment  of  his 
age. 

Here  again  Klopstock’s  services  have  failed  to  receive 
due  recognition  from  our  own  time.  His  cosmopolitanism 
has  been  called  fantastic,  his  patriotism  laboured  His  efforts  to 

and  unreal;  the  rejuvenation  of  Germanic  anti-  ^^-tionalize 
, . Cjerman 

quity  in  his  odes  and  dramas  has  been  derided  literature. 

as  empty  phraseology;  his  turning  away  from  Frederick  the 
Great  has  been  referred  to  the  ignoble  motive  of  disap- 
pointed ambition.  The  truth  is  that  Klopstock's  efforts 
to  nationalize  German  literature  stand  on  the  same  level 
with  Frederick’s  political  achievements.  Had  Frederick 
been  more  liberal  than  autocratic,  instead  of  being  more 
autocratic  than  liberal,  had  he  been  more  German  than 
Prussian,  instead  of  being  more  Prussian  than  German,  we 
should  undoubtedly  have  seen  the  greatest  German  poet 
of  his  time  a devoted  follower  of  the  greatest  German 
monarch.  We  may  regret  that  this  sight  has  been  denied 
us;  that  even  Klopstock  did  not  find  in  contemporary 
life  sufficient  nourishment  for  his  imagination;  that  even 
he,  who  had  started  out  as  an  ardent  admirer  of  Frederick, 
was  at  length  compelled  to  seek  in  the  remote  past  for  a 
realization  of  his  dreams  of  German  greatness  and  liberty. 
But  let  us  be  careful  not  to  attach  any  personal  blame  to 
our  regret;  let  us  be  satisfied  to  note  here  again  the  fatal 
trend  of  German  history  since  the  failure  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, which  now  for  fully  two  centuries  had  tended  to  put 
Germany's  best  men  in  opposition  to  the  actual  and  the 
present;  and  let  us  be  thankful  to  Klopstock  for  having 
brought  back  from  his  flight  into  the  Germanic  dreamland 
figures  and  conceptions  which,  better  understood  and  more 
fully  developed  by  the  Romanticists  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  above  all  by  the  brothers  Grimm,  by  Uhland,  and 
by  Richard  Wagner,  have  now  become  a permanent  ele- 
ment in  modern  German  culture.^® 


In  England,  this  revival  of  ancient  national  traditions  began 


248  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


And  must  we  not  also  be  grateful  to  Klopstock  for  the 
hopes  which  he  entertained  for  the  future  of  his  country 

and  of  humanity?  There  are  few  poems  in  Ger- 

His  patriotism  . ...  ^ 

and  cosmopoli-  man  literature  inspired  with  a nobler  and  more 
tanism.  genuine  sense  of  nationality  than  the  one  in 
which  he  represents  the  English  and  the  German  Muse 
entering  the  lists  of  the  poetic  arena.^*  Proudly  relying  on 
the  record  of  former  victories,  the  daughter  of  Britain 
appears  on  the  scene;  with  glowing  cheeks  and  trembling 
with  youthful  ambition,  the  German  maid  steps  to  her  side. 
With  friendly  condescension,  the  British  woman  addresses 
her  young  rival,  reminding  her  of  the  many  trophies  she 
has  won,  of  her  contest  with  the  Muses  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  and  warning  the  young  German  not  to  risk  too  dan- 
gerous a race. 

Sie  sprach’s.  Der  ernste,  richtende  Augenblick 
Kam  mit  dem  Herold  naher.  “ Ich  liebe  dich!  ** 

Sprach  schnell  mit  Flammenblick  Teutona, 

**  Brittin,  ich  liebe  dich  mit  Bewundeiung! 


Doch  dich  nicht  heisser  als  die  Unsterblichkeit, 
Und  jene  Palmen!  Riihre,  dein  Genius 
Gebeut  er’s,  sie  vor  mir;  doch  fass’  ich, 

Wenn  du  sie  fassest,  dann  gleich  die  Kron*  auch. 


Und,  o wie  beb’  ich!  o ihr  Unsterblichen! 
Vielieicht  erreich’  ich  friiher  das  hohe  Ziel! 
Dann  mag,  o dann  an  meine  leichte 
Fliegende  Locke  dein  Athem  hauchen!  ** 


somewhat  earlier  than  in  Germany  : Macpherson’s  Remains  of  Ancient 
Poetry  appeared  in  1760,  his  Fingal  1762,  Percy’s  Reliques  1765.  In 
Germany,  it  was  Gerstenberg,  the  author  of  Ugolino,  who  in  his  Ge~ 
dicht  eines  Skalden  (1766)  introduced  for  the  first  time  the  Northern 
mythology  into  modern  poetry.  Cf.  Hamel  in  his  introd.  to  Klop- 
stock’s  Oden  \ DNL.  XLVII,/.  xx  f.  Muncker,  Klopstock  p.  379  f. 

**  Die  beiden  Musen  (1752)  ; DNL.  XLVII,  86.  Cf.  Goethe’s  crit- 
icism of  the  poem;  Eckermann,  Gesprdche  I,  115. 


I 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  249 

Der  Herold  klang.  Sie  flogen  mit  Adlereil. 

Die  weite  Laufbahn  stSubte,  wie  Wolken,  auf. 

Ich  sah:  vorbei  der  Eiche  wehte 

Dunkler  der  Staub  und  mein  Blick  verier  sie! 

What  could  be  finer  than  the  cosmopolitan  enthusiasm 

with  which  Klopstock  greeted  the  outbreak  of  the  PVench 

Revolution?  The  heroic  struggle  of  the  Seven  His  sympatliy 

Years’  War  seems  to  him  of  secondary  impor- 

‘ . Frencli  Kevo- 

tance  compared  with  this  dawn  of  a new  era  in  lution. 
human  existence.®^  In  a gigantic  vision  he  sees  the  spirit 
of  Freedom  rise  before  a tyrannical  princeling  and  throw 
him  into  speechless  terror/^  Even  in  his  bitter  disappoint- 
ment over  the  wild  orgies  of  Jacobinism,  he  finds  comfort 
in  the  noble  daring  of  Charlotte  Corday.^^  And  although 
he  despairs  of  seeing  the  French  people  establish  the  reign 
of  lawful  liberty,  yet  he  takes  leave  of  them  as  of  brothers, 
with  a feeling  of  deepest  sympathy.®^ 

Menschenfeind  soil  ich  also  im  Bliitenhaare  noch  warden? 

Der  hier  stets  obstand,  siegend  kampfete  ? Nein! 

Menschenelend  soil  mich  zum  Menschenfeinde  nicht  machen; 

Thranen  im  Blicke,  nicht  Zorn,  scheid^  ich,  Briider,  von  euch. 

And,  finally,  what  a divine  belief  in  the  inevitable  victory 
of  reason,  what  a truly  prophetic  spirit  breathes  in  the  ode,^® 
written  long  before  the  French  Revolution,  in  HishoDesfor 
which  the  poet,  like  an  ancient  Germanic  seer,  G-ermany, 
from  the  wild  plunges  of  a riderless  steed  predicts  the 
future  freedom  of  his  own  country! 

Ob’s  auf  immer  laste  ? Dein  Joch,  o Deutschland, 

Sinket  dereinst!  Ein  Jahrhundert  nur  noch; 


**  Die  £.tats  G^neraux  (1788);  DHL,  XLVII,  177. 
Der  Furst  u.  s,  Kebsweib  (1789);  ib,  l8l. 

Mein  Irrthum  (1793);  ib,  187. 

Die  Denkzeiten  (1793);  ib,  189, 

Weissagung  (1773);  ib,  155. 


250  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


So  ist  es  geschehn,  so  herrscht 

Der  Vernunft  Recht  vor  dem  Schwertrecht! 

Denn  im  Haine  brauset’  es  her  gehobnes 
Halses,  und  sprang,  Plug  die  Mahne,  dahin 
Das  heilige  Ross,  und  ein  Spott 
War  der  Sturm  ihm,  und  der  Strom  ihm! 

Auf  der  Wiese  stand  es,  und  stampft’,  und  blickte 
Wiehernd  umher;  sorglos  weidet’  es,  sah 
Voll  Stolz  nach  dem  Reiter  nicht  hin, 

Der  im  Blut  lag  an  dem  Grenzstein! 

Nicht  auf  immer  lastet  es.  Frei,  o Deutschland, 

Wirst  du  dereinst!  Ein  Jahrhundert  nur  noch; 

So  ist  es  geschehn,  so  herrscht 

Der  Vernunft  Recht  vor  dem  Schwertrecht! 

Klopstock  was  a true  liberator.  He  was  the  first  among 
modern  German  poets  who  drew  his  inspiration  from  the 
depth  of  a heart  beating  for  all  humanity.^^^  He  was  the 
first  among  them,  greater  than  his  works.  By  putting  the 
stamp  of  his  own  wonderful  personality  upon  everything 
that  he  wrote  or  did,  by  lifting  himself,  his  friends,  the 
objects  of  his  love  and  veneration  into  the  sphere  of  ex- 
traordinary spiritual  experiences,^®  he  raised  the  ideals  of 
his  age  to  a higher  pitch;  and  although  his  memory  has 
been  dimmed  through  the  greater  men  who  came  after  him, 
the  note  struck  by  him  still  vibrates  in  the  finest  chords  of 
the  life  of  to-day. 


Cf.  the  A us  dem  goldenen  A bee  der  Dichter  in  his  Gelehrtenrepublik 
(1774),  ib.  277  f. 

Among  Klopstock^s  finest  odes  devoted  to  friendship  and  the 
joys  of  nature  are  the  following (Z^A^Z.  XLVII):  Die  kiinftige  Geliebte 
(1747);  An  Ebert  \ An  Fanny  Der  ZUrcher  See 

Die  Friihlingsfeier  (1759)  ; Der  Eislauf  (1764);  Die  fruhen  Grdber 
(1764);  Die  Sommernacht  Rothschild's  Grdber  (1766). 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  2$ I 


3.  Wieland. 

The  second  great  literary  name  of  the  Friderician  age 
is  that  of  a man  who  in  nearly  every  respect  was  the  exact 
opposite  of  Klopstock:  Christoph  Martin  Wie-  Contrast be- 
land  (1733-1813).  While  Klopstock  leaned  tween Klop- 
to  the  English  taste,  Wieland  inclined  to  the 
French.  While  Klopstock  was  an  ardent  and  common  task, 
uncompromising  republican,  Wieland  was  in  turn  an  advo- 
cate of  enlightened  absolutism,^®  an  admirer  of  the  French 
Revolution  of  1789,^®  and  again,  after  the  declaration  of 
the  republic,  a spokesman  of  German  paternalism.**^  While 
Klopstock,  with  a tenacity  which  came  near  being  stubborn- 
ness, clung  throughout  his  life  to  the  spiritual  ideals  of  his 
youth,  Wieland  constantly  passed  from  one  mental  state  to 
another,  from  pietism  to  cynicism,  from  supernaturalism  to 
materialism,  from  Platonic  to  Epicurean  views,  until  at  last 
he  persuaded  himself  that  he  had  found  the  solution  of  all 
moral  problems  in  a juste  milieu  between  pleasure  and  virtue, 
instinct  and  duty. 

But  in  spite  of  this  personal  contrast  between  the  two 
men,  or  rather  because  of  it,  Wieland  performed  a task  for 
German  culture  closely  allied  to  that  performed  by  Klop- 
stock. He,  no  less  than  the  latter,  helped  to  prepare  the 
ground  for  that  perfect  intellectual  freedom  and  equipoise, 
that  universality  of  human  interest  and  endeavour  which  was 
to  be  the  signal  feature  of  cultivated  German  society  toward 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Klopstock  did  his  part 
by  expanding  and  elevating  the  moral  sentiment,  Wieland 


Cf.  the  novel  Der  goldene  Spiegel  (1772) ; Werke  Hempel  XVIII, 
XIX;  and  the  essay  Ueber  d.  gdttl.  Recht  d.  Obrigkeit  Werke 

XXXIII,  loi  ff. 

Cf.  Unparteiische  Beirachtungen  iiber  d.  dermal,  Staatsr evolution 
in  Frankreich  (1790);  Werke  XXXIV,  66  ff. 

Cf.  Beirachtungen  iiber  d,  gegenw.  Lage  d,  Vaterlandes  (1793); 
Werke  XXXIV,  291  ff. 


252  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

did  his  by  fostering  a refined  sensuality.  Klopstock  drew 
his  strength  from  Pietism,  Wieland  was  rooted  in  Rational- 
ism. He  endeavoured  to  quicken  and  broaden  the  realistic 
current  of  German  literature  which  we  have  seen  running 
at  greater  or  less  depth  from  Grimmelshausen  to  Gellert; 
while  Klopstock  endeavoured  to  give  a new  and  stronger 
impetus  to  the  idealistic  current  which  we  have  likewise 
seen  flowing  throughout  the  preceding  epoch.  Both  men 
seem  more  remarkable  to  us  for  their  aspirations  than  for 
their  attainments.  Klopstock  often  soared  too  high,  Wie- 
land still  oftener  sunk  too  low.  The  absence  even  in  the 
Friderician  age  of  truly  national  tasks  and  of  a firmly  estab- 
lished public  opinion  imparted  to  both  an  eccentric  indi- 
vidualism, which  in  Klopstock  appeared  as  a disregard  for 
the  limitations  of  reality,  in  Wieland  as  a capricious  delight 
in  its  superficial  appearances.  And  yet  it  is  an  injustice 
to  both  Klopstock  and  Wieland  to  speak  of  their  works  in 
a manner  which  is  now  only  too  common,  as  though  they 
had  no  message  to  deliver  to  our  own  time,  as  though  the 
spiritual  ardour  of  the  former,  the  serene  sensuousness  of 
the  latter  had  lost  their  meaning  for  us  moderns. 

The  first  work  in  which  Wieland  showed  his  true  fibre  was 
the  novel  published  in  1766-67.  Up  to 

that  time  he  had  been  oscillating  between  weak 
attempts  in  the  seraphic  manner  of  Klopstock  and 
Young,  and  equally  weak  imitations  of  French 
rococo  literature.  Now  for  the  first  time  he 
struck  a theme  which  brought  out  his  own  literary  indi- 
viduality and  which  at  the  same  time  put  him  into  contact 
with  the  strongest  intellectual  current  of  the  age,  the  ra- 
tionalistic movement.  To  quote  his  own  testimony  about 
the  intentions  followed  out  in  this  novel,  he  chose  the  Ho- 
ratian  line:  ^ Quid  virtus  et  quid  sapientia  possit'  for  its 
motto,  “ not  as  though  he  wished  to  show  in  the  character 


Wieland’s 
Agathon  the 
typical  ex- 
pression of 
eighteenth- 
century 
rationalism. 


Ueber  d.  Historische  im  Agathon;  Werke  I,  59. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  253 


of  Agathon  what  wisdom  and  virtue  are  by  themselves,  but 
how  far  a human  being  through  natural  power  may  advance 
in  both;  how  large  a part  external  circumstances  have  in 
our  way  of  thinking,  in  our  good  and  evil  acts,  in  our  wis- 
dom and  folly;  and  how  only  through  experience,  mistakes, 
incessant  self-improvement,  frequent  changes  in  our  mode 
of  thought  and,  above  all,  through  the  example  and  friend- 
ship of  wise  and  good  men,  we  may  become  wise  and  good 
ourselves.’'  In  other  words,  he  wished  to  point  out  in  an 
object-lesson  what  the  rationalistic  philosophy  of  the  time 
tried  to  point  out  theoretically — the  true  way  toward  indi- 
vidual perfection;  and  if  this  object-lesson  appears  less 
convincing  to  us  than  it  appeared  to  Lessing  when  he  called 
Agathon  the  only  novel  for  thinking  men,”  this  much  is 
certain,  that  in  the  whole  period  between  the  Simplicissimus 
and  Wilhelm  Meister  there  is  no  German  novel  dealing  with 
as  broad  phases  of  life  in  as  successful  a manner  as  Wie- 
land’s  Agathon. 

The  opening  scene  is  a magnificent  classic-romantic 
picture  in  the  style  of  the  Alexandrian  novel.  Agathon,  a 
noble  Athenian  youth,  having  for  a time  played 
a leading  part  in  the  politics  of  his  native  town, 
by  a sudden  revulsion  of  public  feeling  has  lost 
popular  favour  and  is  now  on  his  way  into  exile.  Roaming 
about  at  nightfall  in  a mountain  wilderness,  he  is  startled 
by  strange  tumultuous  sounds.  To  trace  their  origin,  he 
climbs  to  the  top  of  the  glen  where  he  happens  to  be,  and 
here  witnesses  an  extraordinary  spectacle:  a crowd  of 
infuriated  Menads  shouting,  dancing,  raging  about  in  the 
bright  moonlight. 

“ A luxuriant  imagination,  or  the  pen  of  a La  Fage,  might 
undoubtedly  give  an  alluring  description  of  such  a scene;  but 
the  impression  which  the  reality  itself  made  upon  our  hero  was 


Hamb.  Dramat.f  69.  St.\  Sdmmtl.  Schr.  ed.  Lachm.-Muncker 
X,  80.  ^ Werke  I,  69  ff. 


254  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


far  from  being  pleasant.  The  stormy,  flowing  hair,  the  rolling 
eyes,  the  foaming  lips,  the  swollen  muscles,  the  wild  gestures, 
the  frenzied  extravagance  with  which  these  demented  women  in 
a thousand  wanton  attitudes  shook  their  spears  wound  with 
ivy  and  tame  serpents,  clanged  their  tin  cymbals  or  stammered 
forth  abrupt  dithyrambs  with  babbling  tongues:  all  these  out- 
breaks of  a fanatic  rage  which  appeared  to  him  all  the  more 
detestable  because  it  proceeded  from  a superstitious  belief, 
aroused  in  him  nothing  but  aversion  and  disgust.  He  wished 
to  flee  away,  but  it  was  impossible,  because  at  this  very  moment 
he  was  noticed  by  them.  The  sight  of  a youth  in  a place  and  at  a 
festival  which  were  not  to  be  desecrated  by  the  eye  of  a man,  sud- 
denly arrested  the  course  of  their  tumultuous  gaiety  and  turned 
their  whole  attention  upon  his  appearance.  A youth  of  Agathon’s 
beauty,  in  this  place,  at  this  time  ! Could  they  take  him  for 
anything  less  than  Bacchus  himself  ? In  the  frenzy  which  had 
taken  hold  of  their  senses,  nothing  was  more  natural  than  this 
idea,  which  gave  to  their  imagination  such  a fiery  impulse  that 
they  suddenly  seemed  to  see  not  only  the  god  himself,  but  his 
whole  retinue  also.  Their  enchanted  eyes  brought  before  them 
the  Silens  and  the  goat-footed  Satyrs  swarming  about  him,  and 
tigers  and  leopards  licking  his  feet  caressingly.  Flowers,  it 
seemed  to  them,  sprang  from  beneath  his  feet,  and  fountains  of 
wine  and  honey  welled  forth  from  under  his  steps  and  ran  in 
foaming  torrents  down  the  rocks.  Of  a sudden,  the  whole  moun- 
tain, the  forest  and  the  neighbouring  rocks  resounded  with  their 
loud  Evoe,  Evoe!  accompanied  by  such  a frightful  din  of  drums 
and  cymbals  that  Agathon,  struck  with  astonishment  and  fright, 
remained  as  motionless  as  a statue  while  the  enraptured  Menads 
wound  their  extravagant  dances  around  him,  by  a thousand  fran- 
tic gestures  expressing  their  delight  over  the  supposed  presence 
of  their  patron  god.*' 

The  sudden  appearance  of  Cilician  pirates  rescues  Aga- 
thon from  this  awkward  situation,  but  only  to  plunge  him 
at  once  into  another  and  more  serious  trouble.  In  com- 
mon with  the  crowd  of  revellers,  he  is  made  captive  by  the 
robbers  and  put  aboard  a ship  which  is  to  convey  them 
with  other  prisoners  to  the  slave  markets  of  Asia  Minor. 
On  board  this  vessel  he  has  a third,  equally  unexpected 
and  sensational  experience.  Among  his  fellow  captives,  he 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  255 


Js  attracted  by  a handsome  youth  dressed  as  a slave,  whom 
he  soon  recognises  as  Psyche,  the  love  of  his  boyhood. 
They  had  been  brought  up  together  in  the  temple  of  Del- 
phi; both  were  consecrated  to  the  service  of  Apollo;  both 
were  inspired  with  a glowing  desire  for  purity  and  moral 
perfection;  no  wonder  that  they  formed  a friendship  in- 
stinct with  all  the  innocent  idealism  of  inexperience,  which 
made  their  spiritual  communions  in  the  moon-lit  temple 
groves  seem  to  them  like  glimpses  of  Elysium.  But  the 
intrigues  of  a jealous  and  voluptuous  priestess  soon  inter- 
rupted the  course  of  their  youthful  love.  Agathon  and 
Psyche  were  parted,  and  only  now,  through  a curious  com- 
bination of  circumstances,  they  are  again  brought  together 
as  the  fellow  victims  of  barbarian  slave-hunters.  But  even 
this  reunion  is  of  short  duration.  While  Psyche  is  kept  in 
the  service  of  the  chief  of  the  pirates  himself,  Agathon  is 
taken  to  Smyrna,  and  at  a public  auction  sold  to  Hippias, 
the  Sophist. 

Wieiand  introduces  this  figure  by  giving  a characteriza- 
tion of  the  Sophists  in  general,  and  of  their  relation  to 
Socrates  in  particular. 

“ It  must  be  admitted  that  the  wisdom  of  which  the  Sophists 
made  a profession  was  in  quality,  as  well  as  in  effect,  the  exact 
opposite  of  that  professed  by  Socrates.  The  Sophists  taught  the 
art  of  exciting  other  men’s  passions,  Socrates  inculcated  the  art 
cf  controlling  one’s  own.  The  former  showed  how  to  appear 
wise  and  virtuous,  the  latter  how  to  be  so.  The  former  encour- 
aged the  youth  of  Athens  to  assume  control  of  the  state,  the 
latter  pointed  out  to  them  that  it  would  take  half  their  lifetime 
to  learn  how  to  rule  themselves.  The  Socratic  philosophy  took 
pride  in  going  without  riches,  the  philosophy  of  the  Sophists 
knew  how  to  acquire  them.  It  was  complaisant,  prepossessing, 
versatile;  it  glorified  the  great,  cringed  before  their  servants, 
dallied  with  the  women,  and  flattered  everybody  who  paid  for  it. 
It  was  everywhere  at  home,  a favourite  at  court,  in  the  boudoir, 
with  the  aristocracy,  even  v^^ith  the  priesthood;  while  Socrates’s 


45  Werke  I,  89  f. 


256  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LII'ERATURE. 

doctrines,  aggressivre  and  uncompromising  as  they  were,  would 
be  pronounced  unprofitable  by  the  busy,  insipid  by  the  idle,  and 
dangerous  by  the  devout.*' 

Hippias,  the  representative  of  this  pseudo-philosophy, 
into  whose  hands  Agathon  has  now  fallen,  is  a Mephisto- 
pheles  in  disguise.  He  determines  to  undermine  the  reli- 
gious innocence  and  idealistic  enthusiasm  of  his  young  slave. 
His  first  attack,  consisting  of  a systematic  exposition  of  his 
own  sensualistic  doctrines,  in  which  we  easily  recognise  the 
student  of  Voltaire,^^^  falls  completely  flat.  Agathon  has  not 
in  vain  been  reared  at  Delphi,  he  repudiates  Hippias’s  ma- 
terialistic view  of  life  and  vindicates  the  spiritual  nature  of 
man  with  an  assurance  worthy  of  a Leibniz  or  Wolff.  But 
now  there  follows  the  second  attack.  Hippias  introduces 
him  to  the  house  of  the  beautiful  Danae,  and  here  the 
soaring  idealist  falls  a prey  to  sensual  temptation. 

Among  all  the  characters  of  the  novel,  that  of  Danae  is 
the  best  drawn.  She  is  the  representative,  in  Greek  dis- 
guise, of  the  large  class  of  emancipated  women  who  in  the 
eighteenth  century  occupied  leading  positions  at  nearly 
every  European  court.  While  Agathon  spent  his  youth 
hedged  in  by  noble  sentiment  and  thoughts  of  the  divine, 
she  was  from  early  childhood  tossed  about  in  a cold  and 
selfish  world,  and  soon  found  herself  irresistibly  drawn  into 
the  gay  and  empty  life  of  an  adventuress.  Brought  up  at 
Athens  as  the  foster-child  of  a fruit-vender,  she  early 
aroused  the  admiration  of  artists  and  fashionable  young 
men  as  a pantomime-dancer.  Alcibiades  made  her  his 
mistress,  but  soon  deserted  her.  Having  left  Athens  to 
seek  her  fortune  in  the  colonies,  she  was  captured  by  pirates 
and  subsequently  bought  for  the  harem  of  the  younger 
Cyrus.  By  a shrewd  mixture  of  passion  and  coyness,  she 
had  obtained  an  almost  unlimited  power  over  this  prince, 
and  saw  herself  the  actual  if  not  nominal  ruler  of  a brilliant 


The  influence  of  Voltaire’s  Candide  (1759)  both  on  the  construc- 
tion and,  in  a negative  way,  on  the  tendency  of  Agathon  is  evident. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  257 


court,  when  Cyrus  fell  in  the  battle  of  Kunaxa,  leaving  her 
a fortune  large  enough  to  enable  her  to  continue  a life  of 
luxury  and  leisure.  She  now  retired  to  Smyrna,  where  her 
house  soon  came  to  be  the  meeting-place  of  the  Sophists, 
Sybarites,  and  libertines. 

This  is  the  situation  when  Hippias  introduces  Agathon 
into  her  circle.  The  guileless  idealist  is  carried  away  with 
the  charm  of  her  manner,  he  sees  in  her  a beautiful  soul 
he  pictures  her  an  epitome  of  all  that  is  noble  and  exalted. 
No  wonder  that  the  calculating  coquette  has  an  easy  game 
with  him,  that  the  modest  Psyche  soon  begins  to  fade  in 
his  memory,  that  he  finds  complete  happiness  only  in  the 
fiery  embrace  of  Danae.  But  in  her  also  he  awakens  a 
new  sensation.  For  the  first  time  in  her  career,  she  has 
found  a true  lover,  and  for  the  first  time  she  herself  feels 
what  love  is.  She  dreams  of  a new  and  better  life,  she  is 
ready  to  exchange  all  the  luxuries  and  frivolities  of  society 
for  poverty  and  solitude,  if  shared  by  her  beloved  Agathon; 
she  longs  for  a vision  of  innocence  and  simplicity  in  the 
midst  of  her  cynical  and  fashionable  surroundings.  Hippias, 
who  has  himself  formerly  enjoyed  intimacy  with  Danae,  and 
whose  vanity  is  naturally  offended  through  this  unexpected 
issue  of  the  intrigue,  now  resolves  to  part  the  lovers.  He 
reveals  to  Agathon  the  past  of  his  mistress,  and  Agathon, 
suddenly  disenchanted  and  persuading  himself  that  he  has 
wasted  his  feelings  on  a soulless  reprobate,  tears  her  from 
his  heart  and  hastens  away  from  the  scene  of  his  senti- 
mental debaucheries. 

We  now  for  a long  time  lose  sight  of  Danae.  j^gathon 
starts  out  upon  a new  political  career.  His  faith  ic  repub- 
lican ideals  having  been  shaken  by  his  AtLeriian  experi- 
ences, he  consents  to  become  prime  minister  at  the  court  of 
an  enlightened  though  voluptuous  despot:  Dionysius  of 
Sicily.^* 


III,  35  f. 


258  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


**  Agathon  did  not  have  as  high-flown  conceptions  of  human 
nature  now  as  formerly.  Or  rather,  he  had  come  to  know  the 
infinite  difference  between  the  metaphysical  man,  of  whom  one 
thinks  or  dreams  in  speculative  solitude,  and  the  natural  man,  as 
he  proceeds  in  crude  simplicity  from  the  hands  of  the  universal 
mother;  and  the  difference  between  these  two  and  the  artificial 
man  whom  society,  laws,  opinions,  customs,  needs,  dependence, 
a continual  struggle  of  his  desires  with  his  circumstances,  of  his 
own  advantage  with  the  advantage  of  others,  and  the  conse 
quent  necessity  of  continual  dissimulation  and  masking  of  his 
true  intentions,  have  falsified,  degraded,  distorted,  and  disguised, 
in  a thousand  unnatural  and  deceptive  forms.  He  was  no 
longer  the  youthful  enthusiast  who  imagined  that  it  would  be  as 
easy  to  carry  out  a great  undertaking  as  it  is  to  conceive  it.  He 
had  learned  how  little  one  ought  to  expect  of  others,  how  little 
one  ought  to  count  on  their  co-operation,  and  (what  is  most  im- 
portant) how  little  one  ought  to  trust  one’s  self.  He  had  learned 
how  much  one  ought  to  yield  sometimes  to  circumstances.  He 
had  learned  that  the  most  perfect  plan  is  often  the  worst;  that 
evil  cannot  be  eradicated  at  once;  that  in  the  moral  world, 
as  in  the  material,  nothing  moves  in  a straight  line;  in  short, 
that  life  is  like  a voyage,  where  the  pilot  must  adapt  his  course 
to  wind  and  weather,  where  he  is  not  for  a moment  sure  not 
to  be  delayed  or  drifted  aside  by  contrary  currents,  and  where 
everything  depends  on  this:  in  the  midst  of  a thousand  involun- 
tary deviations  from  one’s  course,  yet  to  hold  one’s  mind  unbend- 
ingly fixed  upon  the  port  of  destination.*’ 

It  is  with  such  views  of  life,  so  radically  different  from 
his  former  ones,  that  Agathon  enters  upon  his  new  duties 
at  the  court  of  Dionysius.  He  tries  to  suppress  the  demands 
of  his  own  heart,  he  closes  his  eyes  to  feminine  charms,  he 
devotes  his  whole  energy  to  the  affairs  of  the  state,  he  at- 
tempts to  be  a reform  minister  in  the  manner  of  Pombal. 
For  a time  he  succeeds ; but  soon  he  falls  a victim  to  the 
intrigues  of  the  court  camarilla,  chief  among  whom  are  a 
rascally  crown-official,  who  feels  his  position  endangered 
through  the  inaugurated  reforms,  and  his  equally  vicious 
and  equally  sanctimonious  wife,  who  is  enraged  by  Agathon’s 
indifference  to  her  overtures. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDEKiaC  THE  GREAT.  2 $9 


Once  more  Agathon  has  gained  a valuable  experience 
through  disappointment,  once  more  he  is  forced  to  change 
the  scene  of  his  activity.  But  now  the  end  of  his  trials  is 
at  hand.  At  Tarentum,  in  the  house  of  the  Pythagorean 
Archytas,  he  finds  at  last  peace  and  contentment.  Archytas 
himself  is  the  ideal  rationalist.  Without  refusing  to  acknow- 
ledge the  claims  of  the  sensual  nature  of  man,  he  sees  man’s 
highest  task  in  establishing  a complete  and  undisturbed 
harmony  between  these  claims  and  his  spiritual  vocation. 
In  the  universe  he  sees^®  not  the  work  of  a blind  chance 
or  of  mechanical  forces,  but  the  visible  manifestation  of 
the  ideas  of  an  infinite  intellect ; the  eternal  working  of  an 
eternal,  intellectual  power,  from  which  all  powers  draw  their 
being ; an  all-comprising  city  of  God,  whose  citizens  are  ail 
rational  beings,  whose  lawmakers  and  rulers  are  justice  and 
wisdom,  whose  fundamental  law  is  a universal  striving  for 
perfection.”  He  feels^®  that  a belief  which  is  so  completely 
in  accord  with  reason ; which  leads  in  the  straightest  way 
to  the  greatest  moral  goodness  and  the  purest  joy  of  exist- 
ence possible  on  this  earth ; which,  if  made  universal,  would 
stop  the  sources  of  all  evil,  and  realize  the  dream  of  a golden 
age, — that  such  a belief  is  its  own  proof.  And  he  himself, 
from  the  moment  when  this  truth  for  the  first  time  flashed 
upon  him,  became  a citizen  of  the  universe,  knowing^®  that 
he  belonged,  “ not  primarily  to  himself,  not  to  his  family, 
not  to  a special  civic  community,  not  to  the  glebe  of  earth 
which  we  call  fatherland,  but  to  the  great  whole  in  which 
his  place,  his  destiny,  his  duty  have  been  assigned  to  him 
by  the  only  sovereign  whom  he  acknowledges  above  him- 
self.” 

In  closest  friendship  with  this  man,  Agathon  regains  the 
harmony  of  his  own  intellectual  existence.  And  at  the  same 
time,  his  emotional  nature  is  permanently  satisfied.  Psyche, 
his  first  youthful  love,  whom  he  finds  happily  married  to 


^'^Werke  III,  209. 


Ib.  213. 


4®/^.  215. 


Ib.  214. 


26o  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


one  of  Archytas's  sons,  is  discovered  to  be  his  own  sister ; 
and  Danae,  the  memory  of  whom,  had  not  left  him  for  a 
single  moment  since  he  deserted  her,  now  indeed  proves  to 
possess  what  Agathon  in  his  enamoured  exaltation  divined 
in  her : a beautiful  soul.  After  Agathon’s  disappearance, 
she  had  broken  up  her  household  and  quietly  left  Smyrna. 
She  retired  to  a lonely  country-house  near  Tarentum.  Here 
she  was  still  living,  heart-broken  and  in  utter  seclusion  from 
the  world,  when  Agathon  was  drawn  to  these  parts.  By  a 
chance  they  meet  and  at  once  his  passionate  love  for  her 
flames  up  with  renewed  intensity. 

“ He  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  he  embraced  her  knees,  he 
attempted  to  look  at  her,  and  sank,  unable  to  bear  the  sight,  upon 
her  lap,  his  face  flooded  with  tears.  Danae  could  doubt  no  longer 
that  she  was  loved  still,  and  she  had  difficulty  in  repressing  the 
rapture  into  which  this  certainty  transported  her.  Agathon  was 
still  unable  to  speak;  and  what  could  he  have  said  ? ‘ I am  con- 

tented, Agathon,*  she  said  with  a voice  which  against  her  will 
betrayed  how  hard  it  was  for  her  to  suppress  her  tears,  ‘ I am 
contented!  You  have  found  a friend,  and  I hope  you  will  find 
her  in  future  less  unworthy  of  your  respect  than  before.  No 
excuses  my  friend  ’ (for  Agathon  started  to  say  something 
which  looked  like  an  apology),  ‘ for  you  will  hear  no  reproaches 
from  me.  Let  me  enjoy  in  all  its  purity  the  delight  of  having 
found  you  again.  It  is  the  first  pleasure  which  has  come  to  me 
since  our  separation.*  ** 

Nothing  seems  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a final  reunion  of 
the  lovers.  But  Danae  resolves  to  atone  for  her  former  life 
by  a noble  resignation,  and  Agathon,  after  a hard  struggle 
with  himself,  at  last  lives  up  to  her  moral  heroism. 

“ The  fundamental  features  of  the  soul  are  unchangeable.  A 
beautiful  soul  may  go  astray,  it  may  be  blinded  by  deceptive 
visions;  but  it  cannot  cease  to  be  a beautiful  soul.  Let  the  magic 


5^  Werke  III,  119  ff. 

Ib,  132. — For  the  expression  * beautiful  soul  * cf.  Erich  Schmidt, 
Richardson,  Rousseau,  Goethe,  p.  318  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  261 

mist  be  dispersed,  let  the  soul  come  to  know  the  divineness  of 
virtue!  This  is  the  moment  when  it  comes  to  know  itself,  when 
it  feels  that  virtue  is  not  an  empty  name,  not  a creation  of  fancy, 
not  an  invention  of  deceit — that  it  is  the  vocation,  the  duty,  the 
delight,  the  glory,  the  highest  goal  of  a rational  being.  The  love 
of  virtue,  the  desire  to  transform  itself  in  accordance  with  this 
divine  ideal  of  moral  beauty,  now  takes  hold  of  all  its  instincts; 
it  becomes  a passion;  in  this  state  more  than  in  any  other  the  soul 
can  be  said  to  be  possessed  by  deity;  and  what  trial  is  too  hard, 
what  sacrifice  too  great  for  the  enthusiasm  engendered  by  this 
feeling  ? ” 

Artistically,  some  of  Wieland’s  later  works  are  superior  to 
Agathon,  His  Die  Abderiten  (1774)  will  forever  be  the  classic 
representation  of  German  provincial  town  life 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  with  all  its  insipidity,  Abderiten. 
self-importance,  and  involuntary  humour.  There  are  few 
happier  inventions  in  all  comic  literature  than  the  lawsuit 
about  the  donkey’s  shadow,  which, instituted  by  the  ani- 
mal’s driver  against  one  of  his  customers,  gradually  sets 
the  whole  town  in  motion,  disturbing  the  peace  of  families, 
calling  out  the  most  violent  party  hatred,  and  threatening 
to  overthrow  the  very  foundations  of  government.  And 
nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the  reception^'‘  which 
the  one  common-sense  and  independent  man  of  Abdera,  the 
philosopher  Democritus,  is  accorded  when  after  long  and 
extended  travels  he  returns  to  his  native  town.  Everybody 
is  craving  to  hear  him  tell  of  giants  and  dwarfs,  of  one-eyed 
or  four-footed  men,  and  other  marvellous  things  which 
they  know  he  must  have  seen,  because  they  know  they 
exist.  Democritus  is  sincere  enough  to  confess  that  he 
never  saw  or  heard  of  such  things.  ‘‘  What,  then,  have  you 
seen,”  said  Sir  Paunch,  one  of  Abdera’s  aldermen,  “ you, 
who  for  twenty  years  have  careered  about  the  world,  if 
you  haven’t  seen  any  of  the  marvellous  things  which  are  to 
be  found  in  foreign  countries  ? ” ‘‘  Marvellous  ? ” answered 


Abderiten  <5. 4;  Werke  VIII,  9-84. 


Ib.  b.i;  mrheYU,2if[. 


262  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Democritus  with  a smile ; ‘‘  I had  so  much  to  do  with  the 
observation  of  the  natural,  that  I had  no  time  left  for  the 
marvellous/'  Whereupon  his  audience  very  properly  leave 
him  to  his  own  sense  of  shame  and  contrition. 

Among  Wieland's  poetical  works,  Musarion  (1768)  is  un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  most  graceful  and  delicate  imper- 
sonations of  his  imperturbable  serenity  and 
Musanon,  optimism,  and  of  the  ‘‘  charming  philosophy  ” of 
enlightenment  and  toleration®^ — 

Die,  was  Natur  und  Schicksal  uns  gewahrt, 

Vergniigt  geniesst  und  gern  den  Rest  entbehrt, 

Die  Dinge  dieser  Welt  gern  von  der  schdnen  Seite 
Betrachtet,  dem  Geschick  sich  unterwiirfig  macht, 

Nicht  wissen  will  was  Alles  das  bedeute, 

Was  Zeus  aus  Huld  in  ratselhafte  Nacht 
Vor  uns  verbarg,  und  auf  die  guten  Leute 
Der  Unterwelt,  so  sehr  sie  Toren  sind, 

Nie  bbse  wird,  nur  lacherlich  sie  find’t, 

(Und  sick  dazu),  sie  drum  nicht  minder  liebet, 

Den  Irrenden  bedau’rt  und  nur  den  Gleissner  flieht, 

Nicht  stets  von  Tugend  spricht^  noch,  von  ihr  sprechend,  gliiht, 
Doch,  ohne  Sold  und  aus  Geschmack,  sie  iibet. 


And  in  all  later  Romanticism,  there  is  no  work  which  in 
brilliancy  of  imagination,  in  lightness  of  movement,  in  crys- 
talline clearness  of  action,  and  in  golden  worth  of 
sentiment®®  surpasses  the  ever  youthful  romance 
of  Oberon  (1780)  with  its  changing  pictures®^  “of  rustic 
simplicity  and  oriental  splendour,  of  city  tumult  and 
hermit  life,  of  fearful  deserts  and  elysian  meadows,  of 
knightly  combats  and  magic  dances,  of  joyful  feasts  and 
miserable  shipwreck,"  of  delight  and  grief,  hope  and  de- 


Werke  IV,  42. 

Cf.  Goethe’s  letter  to  Lavater  of  July  3,  1780 ; Briefe  von  Goethe 
an  Lavater  ed.  Hirzel /.  89.  Of  Wieland’s  other  poetical  romances 
Geron  der  Adelich  (1777;  Werke  IV,  117  ff.)  is  the  best. 

Cf.  Werke  I,  37. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  263 


spair,  of  heroism,  constancy,  friendship,  and  the  final 
triumph  of  a stout  and  trusting  heart. 

And  yet,  with  all  the  fuller  development  of  literary  skill 
and  artistic  finish  which  later  years  ripened  in  Wieland,  the 
true  inwardness  of  his  activity,  his  peculiar  sig-  Wieland’s 
nificance  as  a typical  representative  of  his  time,  tnre. 
was  never  more  clearly  brought  to  the  front  than  in 
Agathon,  It  is  impossible  not  to  see  here  the  first  blossom- 
ing out  of  that  spirit  which  was  to  mature  its  finest  fruit  in 
Goethe’s  Faust,  A supreme  interest  in  the  problems  of 
inner  experience,  a supreme  faith  in  the  inviolability  and 
sacredness  of  the  individual  soul,  a supreme  desire  for 
harmonious  cultivation  of  all  its  faculties,  an  ever  ready 
sympathy  even  with  the  wayward  and  the  sinner,  an  un- 
wavering trust  in  the  intrinsic  goodness  of  human  character, 
and  a sublime  indifference  to  passing  defects  and  temporary 
veilings  of  its  true  self, — these  are  the  elements  from  which 
the  highest  and  best  in  the  work  of  Schiller  and  Goethe 
sprang,  and  all  of  them  we  find  at  least  foreshadowed  in 
this  early  work  of  Wieland.®* 

It  is  the  faithfulness  to  these  principles  which  gave  dig- 
nity and  purpose  to  a life  which  otherwise  might  have  spent 
itself  in  trifling  levity.  It  is  this  which  made 
Wieland  one  of  the  foremost  shapers  of  culti- 
vated  German  opinion  toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century,®®  It  is  this  which,  with  all  his  peacefulness  of 
temper  and  adaptability  of  manner,  forced  him,  too,  into 
the  front  rank  of  fighters  for  popular  justice  and  natu- 


Cf.  Goethe Zum  Andenken  des  edlen  Dichters^  Bruders  u.  Freun- 
des  Wieland  (1813);  Werke  XXVII,  2,/.  54  ff.,  and  the  Maskenzug 
of  1818;  Werke  XI,  330  ff. 

A curious  instance  of  Wieland^s  influence  on  popular  German 
thought  in  R.  Fester,  Rousseau  u.  d.  deutsche  Geschichtsphilosophie  p, 
39  f. — For  Wieland’s  great  literary  magazine,  Der  Teutsche  Merkur 
1773-89  (1790-1810  Neue  Teutsche  Merkur')^  cf.  Koberstein /.  c. 
Ill,  123  f. 


264  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LI7ERATURE. 

ral  rights.  For  it  is  clear  that  what  Wieland  considers  as 
the  normal,  natural,  complete  man  cannot  develop  in  the 
sphere  of  autocratic  encroachments  ; and  the  hope  of  the 
race  therefore  must,  according  to  his  own  premises,  lie,  for 
him,  in  the  establishment  and  gradual  expansion  of  legiti- 
mate freedom. 

“ If  it  io  true,”  he  says  himself,  in  the  admirable  essay  On 
the  Place  of  Reason  in  Matters  of  Faith  (1788),*®  “that 
this  eighteenth  century  of  ours  may  boast  of  some  consid- 
erable advantages  over  all  previous  centuries,  it  is  also  true 
that  we  owe  them  exclusively  to  the  freedom  of  thought 
and  expression,  to  the  propagation  of  a scientific  and  philo- 
sophic spirit,  and  to  the  popularization  of  those  truths  on 
which  the  welfare  of  society  depends.  It  may  be  that 
some  eulogists  of  our  age  have  made  too  much  of  these 
advantages.  But  if  the  blessings  which  we  have  derived 
from  them  are  not  greater,  more  extensive,  and  beneficial 
than  they  are — what  is  the  cause  of  it,  if  it  be  not  this:  that 
the  rights  of  reason  still  lack  recognition  in  a good  many 
countries  of  this  hemisphere,  and  that  even  in  those  coun- 
tries where  there  is  the  most  light,  they  still  find  a most 
powerful  and  obstinate  resistance  in  the  prejudices,  the 
passions,  and  the  private  interests  of  ruling  parties,  classes 
and  orders. 

“ It  cannot  be  too  often  repeated:  Nothing  of  what 
men  have  ever  publicly  said,  written,  or  done  is  exempted 
from  the  impartial  and  sober  criticism  of  reason.  No 
monarch  is  so  great,  no  pontiff  so  sacred,  that  he  might 
not  commit  follies  which  we  should  not  be  permitted  to 
call  what  they  are,  namely,  follies.  It  is  true,  children — 
as  long  as  they  are  children — must  be  guided  by  authority. 


Werke  XXXII,  279. — The  last  comprehensive  exposition  of  his 
views  of  life  Wieland  gave  in  his  Aristipp  u,  cinige  s.  Zeitgenossen 
(1800-1802;  Werke  XXV-XXVIIl.  Especially  interesting  the  discus- 
sion of  Plato’s  Republic^  book  IV,  r.  4 ff.) 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  26$ 


But  it  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a child  with  every 
added  year  comes  to  be  less  of  a child.  It  has  in  itself 
all  that  is  needed  to  bring  it  to  maturity,  to  the  per- 
fection of  its  individual  nature;  and  it  is  wrong  for  its 
superiors,  from  selfish  motives,  to  hinder  its  development. 
If,  then,  what  we  call  people  is  a sort  of  collective  child 
(a  current  conception  which  is  not  altogether  without 
foundation),  then  it  must  be  true  of  this  child  what  is 
true  of  all  children:  it  must  be  given  every  opportunity 
to  develop  into  intelligent  manhood.  What  need  we 
fear  from  light  ? What  can  we  hope  from  darkness  ? If 
diseased  eyes  are  not  able  to  bear  the  light,  well,  we  must 
try  to  heal  them,  and  they  will  certainly  learn  how  to 
bear  the  light.” 


4.  Lessing. 

We  have  seen  how  from  the  Reformation  to  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century  whatever  there  was  progressive 
in  German  thought  tended,  on  the  one  hand,  toward  a dis- 
integration of  the  collective  forces  of  an  outworn  society; 
on  the  other,  toward  the  unfolding  of  isolated  independent 
individuals,  the  germ-bearers  of  a new  social  order.  In 
Frederick  the  Great,  the  enlightened  autocrat;  in  Klop- 
stock,  the  exalted  idealist;  in  Wieland,  the  man  of  universal 
culture,  we  found  representative  types  of  this  individual- 
istic development.  We  shall  now  consider  a man  who, 
while  combining  in  himself  the  enlightenment,  the  idealism, 
the  universality  of  the  best  of  his  age,  added  to  this  an 
intellectual  fearlessness  and  a constructive  energy  which 
have  made  him  the  champion  destroyer  of  despotism  and 
the  master  builder  of  lawful  freedom:  Gotthold  Ephraim 
Lessing  (1729-1781). 

It  must  be  admittel  that  Lessing’s  works,  no  less  than 
those  of  Klopstock  and  Wieland,  had  a higher  significance 
for  his  time  than  they  have  for  ours.  Among  his  dramas, 


266  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Minna  von  Barnhelm  and  Emilia  Galotti  are  still  unequalled 
Obstacles  to  a psychological  workmanship  and  are 

just  apprecia-  Still  holding  their  own  on  the  German  stage  by 
tion  of  Lessing,  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  plays.  Yet 

this  very  excellence  of  workmanship  makes  us  feel  all  the 
more  the  absence  in  them  of  that  inner  affinity  to  our  own  life 
which  allows  Iphigenie  and  Wallenstein  to  become  a part  of 
our  moral  nature.  Lessing’s  dramas  are  too  specific  in  tone 
and  purpose  to  be  a common  and  permanent  possession  of 
humanity.  The  conflict  between  love  and  honour  which  is 
represented  in  Minna  von  Barnhelm  in  so  masterly  a fashion 
cannot  be  fully  understood  by  a society  like  ours  whose 
conception  of  honour  is  so  far  removed  from  the  military 
rigour  of  the  official  classes  of  Prussia.  The  motives  which 
in  Emilia  Galotti  impel  the  aged  Odoardo  to  sacrifice  the 
life  of  his  daughter  rather  than  that  of  the  princely  liber- 
tine  who  threatens  to  lay  violent  hands  on  her  can  be 
duly  appreciated  only  by  people  who  have  themselves 
known  what  it  is  to  live  under  a lawless  tyranny.  Even  in 
Nathan^  broad  and  nobly  humane  as  its  teaching  is,  there 
is  an  element  of  partisan  invective,  justified  undoubtedly 
by  the  bigotry  and  narrowness  of  the  orthodox  Protestant- 
ism of  Lessing’s  time,  but  which  nevertheless  detracts  from 
its  permanent  and  universal  value. 

Nor  can  it  be  said  that  Lessing’s  theoretical  views  on 
art,  poetry,  and  religion  have  still  a very  decided  influence 
on  the  minds  of  thinking  men.  His  vigorous  attacks,  in 
the  Ha7nburgische  Dramaturgies  against  the  classic  French 
drama  were  called  forth  and  justified  by  the  unnatural  pre- 
dominance of  French  taste  and  fashion  in  the  contempo- 
rary German  literature,  and  they  were  one  of  the  foremost 
means  of  emancipating  the  German  mind  from  slavish 
imitation  of  foreign  models.  But  now  that  this  emancipa- 
tion has  been  completed,  and  that  we  may  look  upon  the 
writers  of  the  sihle  de  Louis  XIV.  not  as  idols,  claiming 
unconditional  worship,  but  as  objects  of  judicious  observa- 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  267 


tion,  we  have  no  longer  need  of  that  absolute  standard  of 
criticism  which  enabled  Lessing  to  overthrow  those  idols; 
and  if  we  do  not  rank  Corneille  and  Racine  with  Sophocles 
and  Shakspere,  we  are  none  the  less  willing  to  acknow- 
ledge their  measured  greatness  and  statuesque  beauty. 
Lessing’s  artistic  views  as  set  forth  in  his  Laokoon  went 
a great  way  toward  clearing  up  the  confusion,  preva- 
lent at  his  time,  about  the  legitimate  province  of  art 
and  poetry.  Lessing  has  fully  demonstrated  that  each 
art  follows  its  own  laws,  that  the  modes  of  expression 
in  different  arts  must  be  different,  that  to  engraft  the  prin- 
ciples of  one  art  upon  another  destroys  the  main  principle 
of  all  art:  beauty.  This  lesson  is  by  no  means  antiquated; 
Wagner’s  painful  efforts  at  a musical  expression  of  the 
purely  intellectual,  the  failure  of  the  pre-Raphaelites  in 
attempting  to  paint  lyrics,  are  striking  instances  of  the  truth 
of  Lessing’s  observation.  But  the  scope  and  range  of  aes- 
thetic speculation  has  been  so  immensely  widened  since 
Lessing’s  days,  so  many  new  problems  have  arisen  and  are 
continually  arising,  that  his  teaching,  true  and  suggestive  as 
it  is,  does  not  hold  the  same  attention  now  which  it  held  a 
century  ago.  And  a similar  fate  has  befallen  Lessing’s 
theological  views.  It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that,  among  all 
the  Rationalists  of  his  time,  he  was  at  once  the  most  consis- 
tent and  the  least  impetuous;  that  while  dealing  deadly 
blows  to  a bigoted  and  self-sufficient  priesthood,  he  never 
joined  the  crusade  of  Voltaire  and  his  followers  for  a whole- 
sale extirpation  of  the  church;  and  that  while  repudiating 
the  right  of  any  positive  religion  to  claim  an  absolute  worthy 
he  willingly  recognised  the  relative  worth  of  all.  But  theo- 
logical research  has  made  so  vast  a progress  during  the  last 
hundred  years,  the  field  of  religious  investigation  has  be- 
come so  enlarged,  that  Lessing’s  influence,  although  virtu- 
ally not  diminished,  is  less  evident  now  than  before. 

While  we  thus  cannot  help  being  conscious  of  the  bar- 
riers which  prevent  us  from  seeing  Lessing  himself  in  his 


268  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


true  stature,  we  are  yet  near  enough  to  his  time  to  realize 
Constructive  done  more  than  any  other  of  his 


character  of 
his  work. 


contemporaries  to  solve  the  problems  of  literary 
and  artistic  reform,  of  social  progress,  of  re- 
ligious emancipation,  which  are  still  agitating  the  world; 
and  that  whatever  there  is  of  positive,  constructive  lib- 
eralism in  German  life  of  to-day  has  sprung  more  directly 
from  him  than  from  any  other  man  of  his  age. 

The  struggle  Lessing  began  his  career  as  a literary  critic 
against  destroying  what  may  be  called  Gottsched- 

X S6UClO'Cl8/S“  , • 

sicism,  ianism. 


“ ‘ Nobody,’  say  the  editors  of  the  Library,®^  ‘will  deny  that  the 
German  stage  owes  a large  part  of  its  first  improvements  to  Pro- 
fessor Gottsched.’.  . . I am  this  Nobody;  I deny  it  point  blank. 
It  were  to  be  wished  that  Mr.  Gottsched  had  never  meddled  with 
the  German  stage.  His  pretended  improvements  either  concern 
irrelevant  trifles  or  are  outright  changes  for  the  worse.  To  see 
the  wretched  condition  of  our  present  dramatic  literature,  it  was 
not  necessary  to  be  a mind  of  the  very  highest  order.  Nor  was 
Mr.  Gottsched  the  first  one  to  see  it;  he  was  only  the  first  one 
who  thought  himself  capable  of  reforming  it.  But  how  did  he 
set  to  work  in  this  ? His  ambition  was  not  so  much  to  improve 
our  drama  as  to  create  a new  one.  And  what  sort  of  a new 
one?  A Frenchified  one;  without  asking  himself  whether  this 
Frenchified  drama  was  suited  to  the  German  temper  or  not. 
From  the  very  works  of  our  old  dramatic  literature,  which  he 
ostracized,  he  might  have  learned  that  we  are  much  more  akin  to 
the  English  than  to  the  French  taste;  that  we  want  more  food 
for  observation  and  thought  than  the  timid  French  tragedy  gives 
us;  that  the  grand,  the  terrible,  the  melancholy  appeals  more  to 
us  than  the  gallant,  the  delicate,  the  amorous;  that  too  great 
simplicity  tries  us  more  than  too  gieat  complexity,  and  so  forth. 
He  ought  to  have  followed  out  this  line  of  thought,  and  it  would 
have  led  him  straightway  to  the  English  stage. 

“ If  the  masterpieces  of  Shakspere,  with  a few  slight  altera- 


The  Bibliothek  der  schonm  Wissenschaften  u.  freien  Kiinste,  1757- 
65,  edited  by  Nicolai,  Mendelssohn,  and  Chr.  Fel.  Weisse;  after  1765 
continued  by  Weisse  under  the  title  Neue  Bibl,  etc. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  269 


tions,  had  been  made  accessible  to  our  German  public,  I am  con- 
vinced that  better  results  would  have  followed  than  could  follow 
from  the  introduction  upon  our  stage  of  Corneille  and  Racine. 
In  the  first  place,  Shakspere’s  works  would  have  appealed  much 
more  to  the  people  than  those  of  Corneille  and  Racine  possibly 
could;  and  secondly,  the  former  would  have  aroused  quite  differ- 
ent minds  among  us  from  those  whom  the  latter  have  awakened. 
For  genius  can  be  kindled  only  by  genius;  especially  by  a genius 
which  seems  to  owe  everything  to  nature,  and  which  does  not 
frighten  us  away  by  the  laborious  perfections  of  art.  Even  if 
we  apply  the  standard  of  the  ancients, ''Shakspere  is  a far 
greater  tragic  poet  than  Corneille;  although  the  latter  knew  the 
ancients  very  well,  and  the  former  hardly  at  all.  Corneille  is 
nearer  them  in  the  outward  mechanism,  Shakspere  in  the  vital 
essence  of  the  drama.  The  Englishman  almost  always  reaches 
the  goal  of  tragedy,  however  erratic  and  untrodden  paths  he  may 
choose;  the  Frenchman  hardly  ever  reaches  it,  although  he 
follows  in  the  beaten  track  of  the  ancients,’* 

In  these  words,  from  the  first  of  Lessing’s  critical  reform 
manifestoes,  the  Brief die  neueste  Litteratur  betreffend^'^ 
which,  in  common  with  Friedrich  Nicolai  and  Moses  Men- 
delssohn, he  edited  in  1759  and  1760,  we  have  the  first  un- 
mistakable indication  of  the  way  in  which  he  was  to  lead 
modern  German  literatureo  That  he  did  a personal  injus- 
tice to  Gottsched  by  refusing  to  see  any  merit  in  the  latter’s 
endeavours  for  the  purification  and  elevation  of  the  German 
stage,  there  is  no  doubt.  But  it  was  the  kind  of  injustice 
which  seems  to  be  inseparable  from  the  strong  assertion  of 
a new  and  victorious  principle  against  the  representatives 
of  an  old  and  decrepit  system  of  belief.  Gottsched,  with 
all  his  zeal  for  what  he  considered  the  advancement  of  good 
taste,  with  all  his  outward  success  and  influence,  with  all 
his  literary  triumphs  and  honours,  was  essentially  a man 


17.  Brief;  Werke  Hempel  IX,  79  ff.  Cf.  Erich  Schmidt,  Lessing 
I,  410  ff, — For  Nicolai  cf.  J.  Minor,  Lessings  Jugendfreunde ; DNL. 
LXXII,  275  ff. ; for  Mendelssohn,  J.  Minor,  Popularphilosophen  d,  18 
Jhdts;  ib.  LXXTII,  213  h. 


2/0  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

of  the  past,  a representative  of  the  soulless  and  preten- 
tious seventeenth-century  absolutism  ; while  in  the  young 
‘‘  Nobody  ” Lessing  there  was  teeming  the  hope  and  enthu- 
siasm of  a people  ready  to  throw  off  the  fetters  of  courtly 
etiquette  and  to  declare  its  literary  and  intellectual,  if  not 
its  political,  independence.  And  it  is  clear  that  this  aim 
could  be  attained  only  by  the  annihilation  of  those  who 
stood  in  its  way. 

Gottsched  was  the  first  one  to  fall;  he  was  followed  by 

the  whole  school  of  Pseudo-classicism  which  now  for  more 

„ than  two  centuries  had  kept  the  genuinely  classic 

The  discovery  . . 

of  true  classic  out  of  sight.  The  discovery  of  true  classic  an- 
aatiquity.  tiquity  ; the  reconstruction  of  its  real  beauty  and 
greatness  ; the  reform  of  modern  art  and  literature,  not 
through  a slavish  imitation  of  its  forms,  but  through  an 
active  assimilation  and  adaptation  of  its  principles  ; in 
short,  the  reassertion  and  fuller  development  of  the  ideals 
for  which  in  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  the 
Humanists  had  fought, — this  was  the  second  and  decisive 
step  in  Lessing’s  critical  career,  marked  by  Laokoon  (1766) 
and  the  Hamburgische  Dramaturgie  (1767). 

Goethe,  in  an  often  quoted  passage  of  Dichtung  und 
Wahrheity^  has  testified  to  the  liberating  influence  which 
the  Laokoon  exercised  upon  his  generation.  One 
Laokoon.  niust  be  a youth,”  he  says,  to  realize  the  effect 
produced  upon  us  by  Lessing’s  Laokoon^  which  transported 
us  from  the  region  of  petty  observation  into  the  free  fields 
of  thought.  The  ^ ut  pictura  poesis'  so  long  misunderstood 
was  at  once  set  aside;  the  difference  between  art  and  poetry 
was  made  clear;  the  summits  of  both  appeared  separated, 
however  near  each  other  might  be  their  bases.  The  artist 
was  to  confine  himself  within  the  limits  of  the  beautiful ; 
while  to  the  poet,  who  cannot  ignore  whatever  there  is  sig- 
nificant in  any  sense,  it  was  given  to  roam  into  wider  fields. 


Book  8;  Werke  XXI,  95  f. 


TITM  AGE  OF  FFEDEFICA’  THE  GREAT.  27 1 


The  former  labours  for  the  external  sense,  which  is  satisfied 
only  with  the  beautiful;  the  latter  for  the  imagination, 
which  may  come  to  terms  even  with  the  ugly.  As  by  a 
flash  of  lightning,  all  the  consequences  of  this  striking 
thought  were  revealed  to  us;  all  previous  criticism  was 
thrown  away  like  a worn-out  coat.” 

Let  us  try  to  understand  wherein  consisted  the  peculiar 
value  for  Lessing’s  contemporaries  of  the  thought  contained 
in  his  Laokoon. 

Eleven  years  before  its  publication,  there  had  appeared  a 
work  which  for  the  first  time  brought  out  the  true  essence 
of  Greek  art  and  its  vital  relation  to  the  modern  -y^inckel- 
world  : Winckelmann’s  Gedanken  iiber  die  Nach-  mann.  Greek 
ahmung  der  griechischen  Kunstwerke  (1755).  flex Tf Greek 
Winckelmann  found  in  Greek  life  the  source  life- 
and  prototype  of  Greek  art.  He  showed  how  climate, 
race,  religion,  customs,  political  institutions,  in  short  all  the 
inner  and  outer  conditions  of  Greek  civilization  combined 
to  produce,  as  its  finest  flower,  consummate  works  of  art. 
He  pointed  to  the  inherent  tendency  of  Greek  art  toward  the 
typical,  the  ideal.  He  recognised  as  its  universal  charac- 
teristic “ a noble  simplicity  and  calm  grandeur.”  ‘^As  the 
deep  of  the  ocean  remains  ever  quiet,  even  though  its  sur- 
face be  in  an  uproar,  thus  the  Greek  statues  reveal  with  all 
their  passion  a soul  at  rest.  Laocoon,  in  the  statue,  does 
not  break  into  cries  as  Vergil’s  Laocoon  does;  bodily  pain 


Cf.  for  the  following  Winckelmann’s  Ged,  iiber  d,  Nachahmung  d. 
Griech.  Werke  in  d.  Malerei  u.  Bildhauerkunst;  DLD,  nr.  20,  p.  24  ff. 
In  striking  contrast  with  the  essentially  liberal  thought  pervading  this 
essay  are  the  adulatory  phrases  of  the  dedication  which  precedes  it — 
phrases  more  suited  to  a Gottsched  than  a Winckelmann.  It  seems  as 
though  we  saw  two  epochs  meet  in  this  youthful  production  of  Win- 
ckelmann’s : on  the  one  hand  the  old  submission  to  seventeenth-cen- 
tury absolutism,  on  the  other  the  new  life  born  from  the  emancipation 
movement  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Cf.  Carl  Justi,  Winckelmann  I, 

384. 


2^2  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  mental  greatness  are  kept  in  balance,  as  it  were, 
throughout  his  frame;  we  wish  we  might  be  able  to  bear 
misery  like  this  great  man.”  In  truth,  Greek  art  is  the  re- 
flex of  an  inner  vision;  it  does  not  imitate  nature,  but  lifts 
itself  above  nature;  it  creates  gods.  Thus  the  hand  of 
Greek  artists  has  brought  forth  forms,  freed  from  human 
necessity,  rising  into  the  sphere  of  pure  beauty,  awakening 
no  desire,  but,  like  an  idea  conceived  without  the  help  of 
the  senses,  transporting  the  mind  into  a dream  of  blissful 
ecstasy. 

What  a contrast  with  us  moderns,  who,  surrounded  by 
ugliness,  oppressed  by  artificiality,  overwhelmed  with  sterile 
learning,  have  lost  our  artistic  equilibrium,  and  are  helplessly 
drifting  about  in  a sea  of  meaningless  mannerisms  ! But 
what  a lesson  also  ! For  is  it  not  clear  that  in  order  to 
produce  works  of  art  like  the  Greeks,  we  must  learn  to  feel 
like  the  Greeks,  to  live  like  the  Greeks,  to  be  like  the  Greeks, 
that  is,  as  noble,  as  free,  as  well  balanced,  as  true  to  our 
own  nature  as  they  ? 

The  superiority  of  Greek  idealism  over  rococo  formal- 
ism, which  Winckelmann  in  his  intuitive,  far-reaching 

The  laws  of  nianner  had  divined  rather  than  proven,  Lessing 
sculptural  , , . ..... 

and  poetic  demonstrated  in  a more  concise  fashion,  in  a 

beauty  as  re-  more  limited  field.  He  introduced  us  into  the 
ancient^  workshops  of  the  ancient  artists  and  poets.  He 
showed  us  not  only  thaty  but  also  how  they  had  come  to  be 
unequalled  models  of  artistic  perfection.  As  Winckelmann 
rightly  observed,  the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon  group  rep- 
resent the  hero,  not  as  breaking  into  cries,  but  as  sighing 
only.  But  why  ? Not,  as  Winckelmann  thought,  because 
crying  to  the  Greeks  appeared  unworthy  of  a man, — on  the 
contrary,  to  suppress  the  affections  seemed  to  them  the  sign 
of  a barbarian, — but  because  it  would  have  offended  the 
laws  of  sculptural  beauty  to  show  a face  with  muscles  vio- 
lently and  permanently  distorted.  Vergil,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  represent  Laocoon  as  crying,  not  because  he  had  a dif- 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  2/3 

ferent  conception  of  his  character,  but  because  the  laws  of 
poetic  beauty  allowed  him  to  introduce  a sight,  impressive 
through  its  contrast  with  what  preceded  and  what  followed, 
and  robbed  of  its  repulsive  features  through  the  fleetness 
of  its  appearance.  Here,  then,  we  have  the  secret  of  the 
wonderful  workmanship  of  the  ancients.  They  observe, 
not  the  capricious  dictates  of  external  conventions,  but  the 
natural  and  inherent  laws  of  art,  each  in  its  own  sphere. 

How  does  Homer  produce  his  effects  ? Not,  as  our 
pseudo-classic  poets  do,  by  attempting  to  paint,  that  is,  by 
heaping  epithets,  by  throwing  elaborate  descriptions  of 
character  or  situations  on  the  canvas,  but  by  simple  narra- 
tive, by  continual  motion,  by  resolving  coexistent  condi- 
tions into  successive  actions.  Homer  does  not  analyze  the 
beauty  of  Helen,  but  relates  how  she  affected  even  the  old 
men  of  Troy  when  she  appeared  among  them  on  the  city 
walls.®®  He  does  not  describe  the  shield  of  Achilles  as 
completed,  but  makes  us  witness  its  completion  under  the 
hands  of  Hephaestus.®®  He  does  not  dwell  on  the  condi- 
tion produced  in  the  camp  of  the  Greeks  by  the  plague 
sent  upon  them  by  Apollo,  but  he  shows  the  god  himself 
descending  in  his  wrath  from  Mount  Olympus.®^  ‘‘  With 
every  step  the  arrows  resound  in  his  quiver.  He  strides  along 
like  the  night.  He  sits  himself  in  front  of  the  ships.  He 
sends  his  first  arrow  upon  the  mules  and  dogs,  the  second, 
more  poisonous,  upon  the  men — and  everywhere  flame  the 
funeral-pyres  heaped  with  corpses.'' 

How  did  the  Greek  artists  produce  their  effects  ? Not, 
as  our  modern  naturalists  and  mannerists  do,  by  trying  to  vie 
with  the  poet,  that  is,  by  bringing  before  the  senses  figures 
and  scenes  which  are  tolerable  only  to  the  fugitive  imagina- 
tion, but  by  selecting  moments  and  situations  which  can  be 
thought  of  as  stable,  as  permanent,  or  which,  if  passing,  are 


85  Laokoon  XXII,  Werke  VI,  133. 

88  Ib,  XVIII,  /.  r.  1 13.  8'  Ib.  XIII,  /.  f.  93. 


274  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


at  least  suggestive  of  other  portentous  moments  and  situa- 
tions. Thus  Medea  was  r:presented  by  Timomachus,  not 
in  the  moment  of  murdering  her  children,  but  before  the 
murder,  as  being  torn  by  the  conflicting  passions  of  motherly 
love  and  the  desire  for  revenge — a conflict  which  might 
well  be  imagined  as  lasting;  the  raging  Ajax  was  shown,  not 
in  his  mad  onslaught  upon  the  cattle-herd,  but  after  the 
onslaught,  cowering  in  despair  on  the  ground  and  brooding 
over  what  he  had  done.  In  these  pictures  we  have  the  true 
Medea  and  the  true  Ajax.®®  But  a waterfall  represented  in 
marble  ceases  to  be  a waterfall  and  becomes  a block  of  ice; 
a fleeting  smile  arrested  on  canvas  ceases  to  be  a smile 
and  becomes  a grin;  and  the  frequency  of  these  and  similar 
subjects  in  rococo  art  shows  its  fundamental  perversity  and 
corruption. 

While  Lessing  thus  in  the  Laokoon  brushed  away  the  mis- 
interpretations and  arbitrary  rules  in  which  pseudo-classicism 
The  Ham  buried  the  works  of  classic  sculpture  and 

burgisclie  poetry,  bringing  to  light  their  true  human  out- 
Dramaturgie.  their  true  value  for  a regeneration  of 

modern  art  and  literature,  he  was  at  the  same  time  pre- 
paring himself  to  rescue  the  classic  drama  from  a similar 
perversion  and  to  bring  about  the  final  overthrow  of  pseudo- 
classicism on  the  German  stage.  The  one  fact  that  not  a 
few  of  the  weapons  with  which  in  the  Hamburgische  Drama- 
tnrgie  Lessing  made  his  fierce  attack  against  the  French 
drama  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  had 
come  from  the  critical  forge  of  Diderot,®®  ought  to  warn  us 
against  seeing  the  chief  significance  of  this  work  in  the 
checking  of  French  taste  or  the  widening  of  English  in- 
fluence. Nor  ought  we  to  consider  its  vital  problem  the 
question  whether  Corneille  or  Shakspere  came  nearer  the 


Laokoon  III,  1.  c.  32  f. 

••  For  Lessing’s  relation  to  Diderot  cL  Erich  Schmidt,  Lessing  II, 
41  ff.  102.  113  f.  Sime,  Lessing  I,  208-10. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  275 

Standard  of  tragedy  as  attained  by  Sophocles  and  defined 
by  Aristotle.  What  Lessing  was  battling  against  was  not  so 
much  the  French  drama,  as  the  spirit  of  despotic  conven- 
tionalism and  false  propriety  which  during  the  last  hundred 
years  had  been  the  ruling  taste  in  England  no  less  than  in 
France  or  Germany.  And  what  he  was  contending  for  was 
not  so  much  a correct  view  of  the  Greek  theory  of  tragedy, 
as  the  spirit  of  true  humanity  and  sound  nature  which  had 
made  Sophocles  and  Shakspere  possible,  and  for  the  pro- 
pagation of  which  the  best  men  in  the  last  hundred  years 
in  France  no  less  than  in  Germany  or  England  had  been 
struggling. 

Only  by  thus  detaching  from  the  Hamburgische  Drama- 
turgic what  is  merely  national,  and  by  directing  our  chief 
attention  upon  its  universally  human  features, 
are  we  enabled  to  see  what  it  really  was : a part  the  movement 
of  the  universal  eighteenth-century  movement  for  popular 
for  popular  emancipation.  ^ 

This  is  the  meaning  of  the  attack  against  the  ‘ three 
unities  ' and  their  hollow  tyranny  which  had  reduced  the 
average  drama  of  the  time  to  a mere  puppet-show."^®  This 
is  the  meaning  of  the  attempt,  in  consonance  with  the  true 
teaching  of  Aristotle,  to  establish  the  natural  laws  of  tragic 
poetry  as  a representation  of  human  character  and  fate, 
calling  forth  a violent  discharge  of  the  emotions,  and  by 
this  very  process  purifying  them."^^  This  is  the  meaning  of 
the  constant  appeal  to  the  greatness  of  the  Greek  drama 
and  of  Shakspere  in  contrast  with  the  pettiness  and  in- 
significance of  modern  productions."^* 

It  is  well  known  how  much  in  earnest  the  Greek  and  Roman 
peoples  were  with  their  theatre;  especially  the  Greeks,  with 
tragedy.  How  indifferent,  how  cold,  on  the  contrary,  are  our 


Hamh.  Dramat.  St.  44-46  ; Werke  VII,  241  ff. 

” Ib.  St.  37.  38.  74-79.  81.  82  ; Lc.  210  ff.  364  ff.  394  ff. 
” Ib.  St.  80  ; l.c.  388. 


276  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


people  in  regard  to  the  theatre!  Whence  this  difference,  if  it 
does  not  arise  from  the  fact  that  the  Greeks  were  inspired  by 
their  stage  with  feelings  so  strong,  so  extraordinary,  that  they 
could  scarce  await  the  moment  for  experiencing  them  again  and 
again;  while  we  receive  from  our  stage  such  weak  impressions 
that  we  seldom  think  it  worth  the  time  and  money  to  secure 
them  ? We  go  to  the  theatre  almost  all,  almost  always,  from 
curiosity,  from  fashion,  from  ennui.,  from  a desire  for  society, 
from  a wish  to  stare  and  to  be  stared  at;  and  only  a few,  and 
these  few  seldom,  from  other  motives.  I say,  we,  our  people, 
our  stage;  I do  not  mean,  however,  only  the  Germans.  We 
Germans  are  honest  enough  to  confess  that  as  yet  we  have  no 
theatre.  What  many  of  our  critics  who  subscribe  to  this  confes- 
sion and  at  the  same  time  are  great  admirers  of  the  French 
theatre  are  thinking  cf  in  forming  such  a judgment,  I know  not; 
but  I know  what  I myself  think  of  it.  I think  that  not  only  we 
Germans,  but  also  that  those  who  for  a century  have  boasted  of 
having  a drama,  the  best  drama  in  all  Europe — that  even  the 
French  have  no  dxama.  No  tragedy,  certainly!  For  the  im- 
pression which  French  tragedy  produces  is  so  shallow,  so  cold!  ” 

Shakspere,  on  the  other  hand,  affects  us  deeply,  because 
he,  like  the  Greek  tragic  poets,  represents  human  nature  at 
its  highest,  and  thus  heightens  our  own  self.  While  the 
feeble  correctness  of  French  tragedy  has  invited  a host  of 
successful  imitators,  he  in  his  lonely  grandeur  defies  all 
imitation,  but  through  this  very  fact  calls  out  the  rivalry  of 
genius.’® 

“What  has  been  said  of  Homer,  that  it  would  be  easier  to 
rob  Hercules  of  his  club  than  to  take  a verse  from  him,  is 
perfectly  true  also  of  Shakspere.  Upon  the  smallest  of  his 
beauties  a stamp  is  impressed  which  cries  out  to  the  whole  world: 
‘ I am  Shakspere’s!  ’ And  woe  to  any  other  beauty  which  has 
the  audacity  to  place  itself  beside  his!  Shakspere  must  be 
studied,  not  plundered.  If  we  have  genius,  Shakspere  must  be 
to  us  what  the  camera  obscura  is  to  the  landscape-painter. 
Let  him  look  diligently  into  it,  to  learn  how  nature  projects 
itself  in  all  cases  upon  a flat  surface;  but  let  him  not  attempt 
to  borrow  from  it.” 


Hamb.  Dra7nat,  St.  73;  /.  c,  362. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  2/7 


We  have  emphasized  in  Lessing’s  literary  and  artistic 
criticism  the  tendencies  connecting  him  with  the  great  cur- 
rent of  freedom,  the  spread  of  which  through 
the  whole  of  Europe  and  beyond  it  forms  the 

^ . patriotism, 

most  remarkable  phenomenon  of  the  eighteenth 

century.  But  it  would  be  shutting  one’s  eyes  to  an  appa- 
rent fact,  not  to  see  that  Lessing  was  in  equally  close  contact 
with  another  great  movement  which,  as  we  have  already 
seen  in  Klopstock,  was  intimately  allied  with  the  eighteenth- 
century  struggle  for  freedom,  and  which  was  destined  to 
become  the  dominant  factor  in  the  history  of  the  nineteenth 
century:  the  movement  for  national  consolidation.  Indeed, 
it  is  this  very  blending  of  cosmopolitan  breadth  and  patri- 
otic warmth,  of  republican  fearlessness  and  monarchical 
discipline,  that  gives  to  most  of  Lessing’s  productions  their 
masculine  vigour  and  intensity.  He  declined  to  beat  the 
Prussian  war-drum  with  the  shallow  enthusiasm  of  a Ram- 
ler’*;  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  indignation  at  the 
despotic  methods  of  Frederick’s  government  he  would 
in  a moment  of  disgust  and  impatience  speak  of  patriotism 
as  an  heroic  weakness,”  and  disclaim  for  himself  the  name 
of  a patriot.’®  But  what  else  than  patriotism,  what  else 
than  the  feeling  which  animated  the  Prussian  army  at  Ross- 
bach  was  it  when,  in  the  concluding  article  of  the  Dra^na- 
he  wrote  “What  a simple  idea  to  give  the  Ger- 
mans a national  theatre,  while  we  Germans  are  as  yet  no 
nation!  I do  not  speak  of  the  political  constitution,  but 
only  of  the  moral  character.  One  might  almost  say:  the 
character  of  the  Germans  is  to  insist  on  having  none  of 
their  own.  We  are  still  the  sworn  imitators  of  everything 
foreign,  especially  the  humble  admirers  of  the  never-enough- 
admired  French.  Everything  from  beyond  the  Rhine  is 

Cf.  Erich  Schmidt  /.  c.  I,  294  f. 

Cf.  letter  to  Nicolai  nr.  178  ; Werke  XX.  i,  330. 

Cf.  letters  to  Gleim  nr  77.  78;  /.  c.  170.  173. 

” St.  loi;  Werke  VII,  474. 


278  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


beautiful,  charming,  lovely,  divine;  we  would  rather  disown 
sight  and  hearing  than  think  otherwise;  we  will  rather  per- 
suade ourselves  to  accept  coarseness  for  naturalness,  fri- 
volity for  grace,  grimace  for  expression,  a tingling  of  rhymes 
for  poetry,  howling  for  music,  than  in  the  smallest  degree 
doubt  the  superiority  in  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful  and 
sublime  and  becoming,  which  this  charming  nation,  this 
first  nation  of  the  world,  as  it  is  accustomed  very  modestly  to 
call  itself,  has  received  as  its  share  from  a just  Providence.” 
Nowhere  more  forcibly  than  in  his  dramas  has  Lessing 
manifested  this  twofold  quality  of  his  work  as  standing 
The  political  cosmopolitan  freedom  and  for  national 

aspect  of  Les-  dignity.  Indeed  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
sing’s  dramas,  nearly  every  one  of  his  dramas  marks  an  impor- 
tant step  in  either  of  these  directions,  if  not  in  both.  In 
Miss  Sara  Sampson  (1755),  the  first  German  tragedy  of 
common  life,  he  emancipated  the  German  stage  from  the 
absurd  pseudo-classic  prejudice  that  the  representation  of 
elevated  feeling  and  deep  emotion  should  be  restricted  to 
the  sphere  of  kings  and  princes, — thus  accomplishing  for 
his  own  country  what  Lillo  and  Steele  had  done  before  him 
in  England,  what  Nivelle  de  la  Chaussee,  Diderot,  and  others 
had  attempted  in  France.  In  Philotas  (1759)  imperso- 
nated, although  in  Greek  disguise,  the  spirit  of  heroism  and 
unswerving  devotion  to  king  and  country  which  made  the 
Prussia  of  the  Seven  Years’  War7^^  In  Minna  von  Barn- 
hehn  (1767)  he  created  the  first  unquestionably  and  uncon- 
ditionally German  characters  of  the  modern  German  stage, 
characters  charged,  as  it  were,  with  a sturdy  individuality, 
and  at  the  same  time  types  of  a people  beginning  to  feel 
itself  again  as  a whole,  and  to  be  again  conscious  of  national 
responsibilities.  In  Emilia  Galotti  (1772)  he  gave  voice 
to  popular  indignation  at  the  oppression  of  the  middle 
classes  through  a corrupt  and  vicious  aristocracy,  thus 

It  was  not  until  three  years  later  that  Thomas  Abbt  wrote  his 
enthusiastic  essay  Vom  Tode  furs  Vaterland  (1761). 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  279 

opening  the  battle  which  was  to  be  carried  on  in  the  ‘ Sturm 
und  Drang  * movement,  and  which,  in  the  classic  days  of 
Weimar  and  Jena,  was  to  bring  about  the  German  counter- 
part to  the  French  Revolution:  the  supplanting  of  the  old 
aristocracy,  based  on  birth  and  privilege,  by  a new  aristo- 
cracy of  intellect  and  culture. 

Let  us  examine  somewhat  more  closely  at  least  two  of 
Lessing’s  dramatic  characters — Tellheim,  the  lover  of  Minna 
von  Barnhelm;  Odoardo,  the  father  of  Emilia  Tellheim  and 

Gallotti — which  bring  out  in  a most  emphatic  Odoardo  as 
. . . , . public  cha- 

manner  this  twofold  principle  of  cosmopolitan-  racters. 

ism  and  nationality,  of  freedom  and  discipline. 

Tellheim  is  a soldier  without  a grain  of  the  hireling  in 

him.  ‘‘A  man  must  be  a soldier  he  says"^® — ‘‘for  his 

country,  or  for  love  of  the  cause  for  which  he  Tellheim 

is  fighting.  To  serve  without  a purpose,  to-day  a type  of  the 

« • Trussia  of 

here,  to-morrow  there,  is  to  hire  himself  out  as  a Frederick  the 
butcher,  nothing  else.”  He  has  found  out  by  Great, 
personal  experienced^  that  “the  service  of  the  great  is  dan- 
gerous, and  does  not  repay  the  trouble,  the  want  of  free- 
dom, the  humiliation  it  costs.  I became  a soldier  from  pre- 
dilection, I know  not  for  what  political  maxims,  and  from 
a whim  that  it  was  good  for  every  honest  man  to  try  this 
profession  for  a time,  to  familiarize  himself  with  everything 
called  danger,  and  to  learn  coolness  and  determination. 
Utter  necessity  only  would  have  compelled  me  to  make  of 
this  experiment  a vocation,  of  this  occasional  employment 
a trade.”  And  nothing  is  more  significant  of  his  feelings 
than  the  abrupt  exclamation  called  forth  by  a chance  men- 
tion of  the  Moor  of  Venice.^®  “ But  pray  tell  me,  madame, 
how  did  the  Moor  come  to  be  in  the  Venetian  service  ? Had 
the  Moor  no  fatherland  ? Why  did  he  lend  his  arm  and  his 
blood  to  a foreign  state  ?” 

Honour  is  his  highest  law,  but  it  is  the  true  honour  of  a 


Minna  v,  B,  ( Werke  II)  III,  7. 


Ib,  V,  ^ 


80  Ib.  IV.  6 


28o  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


man  controlling  his  own  desires,  ready  to  sacrifice  himself 
for  his  fellows,  in  touch  with  every  human  feeling;  not  the 
false,  pretentious  honour  of  a selfish,  conceited  high-caste 
official.  What  genuine  manliness  he  displays  in  the  scene 
where  he,  the  poor,  discharged  officer,  who  has  just  been 
forced  by  a greedy  landlord  to  quit  his  lodgings,  refuses  to 
acknowledge  the  debt  which  the  widow  of  one  of  his  com- 
rades comes  to  pay  him  ! He  knows  that  the  woman  has 
sold  everything  in  order  to  raise  the  necessary  sum,  he 
knows  that  she  has  a son  to  bring  up,  and  his  decision  is 
quick  and  simple — ‘‘  Would  you  have  me  rob  the  untutored 
orphan  of  my  friend  ? ” Then,  after  the  widow  has  left  him, 
he  takes  the  bill  of  debt  from  his  pocket-book.  ‘‘  Poor, 
excellent  woman  ! I must  not  forget  to  destroy  this  trifle/' 

What  a picture  of  noble  constraint  and  self-renunciation 
when  after  a separation  of  months  and  years  he  for  the  first 
time  meets  Minna  again!  When  they  were  engaged,  he 
had  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  could  make  her  happy. 
He  was  in  the  full  possession  of  his  power;  an  officer  in 
the  proudest  army  of  Europe;  a life  of  honour  and  success 
seemed  before  him.  Since  then  fate  has  pursued  him.  A 
shot  has  lamed  his  right  arm;  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Hu- 
bertusburg  peace  he  has  been  discharged;  a suspicion — base- 
less to  be  sure — has  been  cast  upon  his  character.  Not 
willing  to  inflict  his  misfortune  upon  the  woman  whom  he 
loves,  the  proud  man  has  fled  from  her,  he  has  tried  to  for- 
get her,  and  now  she  has  come  to  make  him  her  own. 

Tellheim  : You,  here  ? What  are  you  seeking  madame  ? 

Minna  : I am  seeking  nothing — now  (approaching  him  with 
open  arms).  All  I sought  I have  found. 

Tellheim  (shrinking  from  her)  : You  sought  a fortunate  man, 
a man  worthy  of  your  love;  and  find — a wretch. 

Minna  : Then  you  love  me  no  longer  ? and  you  love  another  ? 

Tellheim:  Ah!  he  never  loved  you,  madame,  who  after  you 
can  love  another. 

Minna:  You  draw  only  one  thorn  from  my  heart.  If  I have 


Minna  v,  B,  I,  6.  7. 


Ib.  II,  9. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  28 1 


lost  your  love,  what  matters  it  whether  indifference  or  more 
powerful  charms  robbed  me  of  it  ? You  love  me  no  longer,  and 
you  do  not  love  another  ? Unhappy  man!  not  to  love  at  all! 

Tellheim  : Right,  madame.  The  unfortunate  man  must  not 
love  at  all.  He  deserves  his  misfortune  if  he  does  not  gain  this 
victory  over  himself;  if  he  can  allow  himself  to  let  those  whom 
he  loves  share  his  misfortune. — How  hard  is  this  victory! — 
Since  reason  and  necessity  bade  me  forget  Minna  von  Barnhelm, 
what  pains  have  I endured  in  order  to  forget  her!  I was  just 
beginning  to  hope  that  these  pains  would  not  be  forever  fruit- 
less— and  you  appear,  madame.’* 

And  finally,  the  change  of  his  attitude  in  the  last  act, 
brought  about  through  Minna’s  innocent  deception  in 
representing  herself  as  disinherited  and  helpless.®^  How 
the  loyalty,  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  of  the  man  wells 
up  at  the  thought  that  his  life  has  an  aim  again,  that  the 
one  whom  he  loves  so  deeply,  and  whom  he  dared  not  to 
make  his  own,  needs  his  protection ! ‘‘  My  soul  has  acquired 
new  springs  of  action.  My  own  misfortune  depressed  me, 
made  me  irritable,  short-sighted,  timid,  sluggish.  Her  mis- 
fortune elevates  me.  I breathe  afresh,  and  feel  ready  and 
strong  enough  to  undertake  anything  for  her.”  How  elo- 
quent this  man  of  few  words  becomes,  how  he  pleads  with 
Minna,  how  he  entreats  her  to  accept  his  care  ! How  the 
suppressed  hopefulness  of  his  nature  reveals  itself ! Is 
this  country  the  world  ? Does  the  sun  rise  but  here  ? 
Where  might  I not  go?  What  service  would  refuse  me? 
And  if  I am  obliged  to  seek  it  in  farthest  lands,  follow 
me  with  courage,  dearest  Minna,  we  shall  want  nothing.” 
And  when  at  last  it  appears  that  there  is  a place  for  him  in 
his  own  country,  when  the  suspicion  that  had  been  cast 
upon  his  honour  is  dispelled,  when  a new  career  of  success 
and  fame  lies  before  him,  it  is  again  not  the  thought  of 
himself,  it  is  the  thought  of  service  for  his  beloved  Minna 
that  animates  him.  Now  that  fortune  has  restored  to  me 


Minna  v.  B.  V,  2.  5.  9. 


282  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


enough  to  satisfy  the  wishes  of  a reasonable  man,  it  shall 
depend  alone  on  my  Minna  whether  I shall  belong  to  any 
one  but  her.  To  her  service  alone  shall  my  whole  life  be 
devoted.  Minna  is  not  one  of  those  vain  women  who  love 
their  husbands  for  nothing  but  their  rank  and  titles.  She 
will  love  me  for  myself;  and  for  her  I shall  forget  the  whole 
world/' 

In  all  this  we  observe  the  combination  of  two  conflicting 
tendencies.  On  the  one  hand  we  see  the  after-effect  of  the 
turning  away  from  public  problems  and  interests  which  we 
have  come  to  know  as  the  main  drift  of  German  life  from 
the  Thirty  Years'  War  to  the  age  of  Frederick  the  Great. 
Even  Tellheim,  the  Prussian  officer,  has  no  more  immediate 
interests  than  his  private  affairs,  his  personal  relations  to  a 
small  circle  of  individuals.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  see 
the  first  signs  of  a new  tide  of  public  consciousness  setting 
in.  How  different  this  individualism  of  the  Lessingian  type 
is  from  the  weakly  self-introspection  of  a Gellert,  the  re- 
fined self-complacency  of  a Wieland,  or  the  ecstatic  self- 
exaltation of  a Klopstock.  This  individualism  rests  on 
self-control  and  self-surrender;  this  individualism  is  inti- 
mately allied  with  the  proud  self-abnegation,  the  unflinching 
loyalty,  the  thoroughly  monarchical  discipline  to  which  the 
Prussia  of  Lessing's  time  owed  all  that  it  was,  and  which  in 
our  own  days  has  become  the  final  and  decisive  instrument 
in  bringing  about  a new  era  of  German  national  greatness.®* 

Odoardo  is  a character  very  similar  to  Tellheim.  He  has 
Odoardoaliv-  same  independence,  courage,  and  earnest- 
ing protest  ness  of  purpose;  the  same  disciplined  devotion 
Senrfgime  principle  and  honour;  the  same  contempt 
society.  for  the  glittering  and  the  false.  But  there  is 

one  thing  in  Odoardo  which  makes  him  in  a still  more  strik- 

It  is  well  known  that  Tellheim’s  character  is,  in  part  at  least, 
drawn  after  Lessing’s  friend,  the  Prussian  major  Ewald  von  Kleist, 
author  of  Der  Fruhling,  who  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  battle  of 
Kunersdorf,  1759.  ^f*  Erich  Schmidt  /.  c.  I,  473  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  283 

ing  manner  than  Tellheim  a representative  of  this  age  of 
emancipation  and  reconstruction:  a hatred  of  tyranny 
which  cannot  help  being  defiant,  and  a republican  rigour 
which  knows  no  compromise. 

Nowhere  does  he  display  this  more  forcibly  than  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  rescues  his  daughter  from  the  snares  of 
courtly  corruption.  As  is  well  known,  the  prototype  of 
Emilia  Galotti  is  the  Roman  Virginia,  of  whom  we  read  in 
Livy.  Virginia  is  coveted  by  the  decemvir  Appius  Clau- 
dius. In  order  to  gratify  his  desires,  he  openly  breaks 
through  the  most  sacred  restraints  of  the  law,  by  wilfully 
adjudicating  her  to  one  of  his  clients.  When  the  girl  is 
about  to  be  carried  away  into  his  service,  the  father  asks 
for  a last  interview  with  his  daughter,  and  to  save  her  from 
slavery  and  shame,  stabs  her  in  the  heart.  This  desperate 
deed,  committed  in  the  open  market-place,  kindles  the  la- 
tent indignation  of  the  people  at  the  tyranny  of  Appius  into 
revolt;  the  decemvirs  are  thrown  out  of  office;  and  Rome 
is  free. 

Emilia,  the  daughter  of  colonel  Odoardo,  excites  the  pas- 
sion of  the  prince  of  Guastalla,  her  father’s  sovereign.  In 
order  to  gratify  the  appetite  of  the  princely  libertine,  the 
whole  machinery  of  Macchiavellian  intrigue  and  high- 
handed brutality  at  the  disposal  of  an  eighteenth-century 
autocrat  is  set  in  motion.  On  the  morning  of  the  day  on 
which  Emilia  was  to  be  wedded  to  the  man  of  her  choice 
the  latter  is  murdered  by  hired  bandits.  Emilia  herself, 
under  the  pretext  of  sheltering  her,  is  separated  from  her 
family  and  taken  to  the  prince’s  country-seat.  Odoardo, 
informed  of  what  has  happened,  hastens  to  his  daughter’s 
rescue.  But  finding  that  the  meshes  of  the  fiendish  intrigue 
are  too  closely  drawn,  he  sees  no  rescue  for  her  but  in  death. 
He  kills  her  with  his  own  hand. 

Up  to  this  point  the  two  cases  are  essentially  the  same; 
but  here  the  similarity  ends.  Odoardo  does  not,  like  Vir- 
ginius,  call  for  the  revenge  of  his  daughter’s  blood,  and  his 


284  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

deed  does  not,  like  that  of  Virginias,  bring  about  a popular 
upheaval  against  tyrannical  usurpation.  He  surrenders 
himself  to  the  courts,  and  the  prince,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, remains  unpunished.  It  is  this  discrepancy  from  the 
Roman  tradition,  this  substitution  of  private  for  public  mo- 
tives, which  Lessing  had  in  mind  when  he  called  Emilia 
Galotti  a bourgeoise  Virginia.  And  it  is  this  very  departure 
which  makes  this  tragedy,  and  particularly  the  character  of 
Odoardo,  in  such  an  eminent  manner  representative  of  the 
period  preceding  the  French  Revolution. 

No  stronger  indictment  of  the  whole  system  of  autocratic 
misrule  has  ever  been  written.  This  prince  of  Guastalla,  a 
man  for  whom  his  subjects  are  nothing  but  so  many  oppor- 
tunities for  extortion,  a man  who  will  sign  a death-warrant 
with  the  same  unconcern  with  which  he  engages  a singer  or 
deserts  a mistress, an  expert  in  the  science  of  self-gratifica- 
tion, a master  in  the  art  of  seduction  and  corruption,  and 
with  all  this  a mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  his  omnipotent 
prime  minister  Marinelli;  this  Marinelli,  an  impersonation 
of  unscrupulous  rascality,  incapable  of  conceiving  motives 
that  are  not  low  and  contemptible,  a coward  and  a liar,  a 
wretch  too  miserable  even  to  have  any  strong  passion  or  to 
indulge  in  any  striking  vice,  a vampire  in  human  form;  this 
countess  Orsina,  the  deserted  mistress,  a woman  of  parts 
and  refinement,  but  signed  with  the  stamp  of  lost  inno- 
cence, consuming  herself  in  the  mad  attempt  to  force  the 
prince  back  into  his  former  allegiance,  a Pompadour  trans- 
formed into  a Messalina,  a bacchante  turned  into  a Fury,^^ 
— what  a revelation  of  ancien  regime  society  these  charac- 
ters contain  ! 

And  now,  on  the  other  side,  Odoardo  and  his  kin.  He  is 
a man  of  his  own  making.  Having  retired  from  the  army, 

Cf.  letter  to  Nicolai  nr.  63;  Werke  XX,  p.  145.  For  the  in- 
fluence on  Lessing  of  the  Virginia  by  Samuel  Crisp  (1754)  cf.  G. 
Roethe  in  Vierteljahrschr.  f.  Littgesch.  II,  520  ff. 

86  Emilia  Galotti  ^Werke  II)  I,  8.  8i  jy,  7. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  285 

where  he  had  risen  from  a private  to  a colonel,  he  lives  in  quiet 
retreat  at  a modest  country-seat  near  the  capital,  leaving  it®® 

to  the  Marinellis  to  stoop,  to  flatter,  and  to  cringe.”  His 
daughter  is  betrothed  to  the  count  Appiani,  a man  of  equal 
sturdiness  of  character,  who  in  spite  of  his  aristocratic 
birth  has  decided  to  sever  his  connections  with  the  court, 
and  to  lead  henceforth  the  independent  life  of  a country 
gentleman.®^  Hardly  can  I wait  for  the  moment  when  I 
shall  call  this  worthy  young  man  my  son.  Everything  in 
him  delights  me;  but  above  all  his  decision  to  live  to  him- 
self in  his  ancestral  valleys.” 

Into  this  prospect  of  a happy  family  idyll  there  breaks  a 
sudden  stream  of  vice  and  destruction,  sent  forth  from  the 
pestilent  pool  of  court  life.  The  violent  passion  of  the 
prince  for  Emilia,  the  decision  to  obtain  her  at  any  cost, 
Marinelli’s  fiendish  intrigue,  culminating  in  the  murder  of 
Appiani  and  Emilia’s  abduction, — all  these  events  follow 
each  other  in  rapid,  flashlike  succession.  When  Odoardo, 
as  yet  ignorant  of  the  full  extent  of  what  has  happened, 
hastens  to  the  castle  in  order  to  claim  his  daughter,  he  is 
met  by  the  countess  Orsina,  who  has  come  to  seek  revenge 
for  the  outrages  committed  by  the  prince  against  herself. 
She  reveals  to  him  the  connection  of  events,  she  forces  upon 
him  the  dagger  which  she  has  brought  with  her  as  a last 
resort.  Half  crazed  with  grief  and  wrath,  as  Odoardo  is, 
his  first  impulse  is  to  kill  the  prince  himself.  But  he  soon 
collects  himself.®®  Is  he  to  share  in  the  revenge  of  a repro- 
bate ? Is  he  to  punish  one  crime  by  committing  another? 

“ What  has  injured  virtue  to  do  with  the  revenge  of  vice  ? 
The  former  only  have  I to  rescue.  And  thy  cause,  my  son, 
O my  son! — thy  cause  a higher  than  I will  make  his  own. 
Enough  for  me  if  thy  murderer  is  not  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his 
crime.  Let  this  torment  him  more  than  his  crime!  As  he  hastens 
on  from  lust  to  lust,  driven  by  satiety  and  ennui,  let  the  thought 
of  having  lost  this  prize  embitter  to  him  all  the  rest.  In  his  every 


Emilia  Galotti  II,  4. 


89/^. 


Ib.  V,  2. 


286  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

dream  may  the  blood-stained  bridegroom  appear  before  his  bed, 
leading  the  bride  on  his  arm;  and  when  he  stretches  out  his 
wanton  hand  for  her,  let  him  hear  the  scornful  laughter  of  hell, 
and  awake!  ** 

In  this  mood,  Odoardo  comes  to  see  that  the  attempt  to 
free  his  daughter  is  in  vain;  and  from  her  own  lips  he 
hears  the  most  awful,  the  most  crushing  truth.  Emilia 
does  not  feel  sure  of  herself;  even  she,  the  modest,  inno- 
cent girl,  the  daughter  of  an  Odoardo,  the  betrothed  of  an 
Appiani,  has  been  touched  by  the  foul  breath  of  courtly 
corruption.  Like  the  dove  charmed  by  the  serpent's  glance, 
she  is  in  danger  of  losing  her  power  of  conscious  motion, 
she  feels  herself  that  she  might  be  resistlessly  drawn  into 
the  gulf  of  seduction,  and  she  herself  sees  her  only  salva- 
tion in  death.  And  now  the  father  hesitates  no  longer,  he 
plucks  the  rose  before  the  storm  scatters  its  leaves." 

Artistically  this  denouement,  in  spite  of  its  masterly  and 
thoroughly  consistent  representation,  is  undoubtedly  open  to 
criticism.  As  an  expression  of  political  feeling  nothing 
could  be  stronger.  No  more  revolutionary,  and  at  the 
same  time  conservative,  character  has  been  drawn  than  this 
man  who  disdains  to  take  revenge  with  his  own  hand, 
knowing  that  the  eternal  justice  of  things  will  surely  sweep 
away  the  whole  system  of  foulness  and  usurpation  under 
which  his  generation  is  smarting.  No  more  stirring,  though 
implicit,  plea  for  popular  freedom  has  been  made  than  the 
words  with  which  he  surrenders  himself  to  the  authori- 
ties There,  prince!  Does  she  still  please  you?  Does 
she  still  excite  your  desire  ? Still,  in  this  blood,  that  cries 
for  vengeance  against  you  ? — I go,  and  give  myself  up  to 
prison.  I go,  and  await  you  as  judge. — And  then,  yonder, 
— I await  you  before  the  Judge  of  us  all! " 

We  have  seen  how  Lessing,  by  destroying  the  pseudo- 


Ib.  V,  8.  For  the  influence  of  Emilia  upon  the  Storm-and-Stress 
literature  cf.  Erich  Schmidt  /.  c.  II,  221  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  287 


classic  theory  of  art  and  poetry,  opened  the  way  for  true 
classicism,  which  is  identical  with  true  human- 
ism;  we  have  seen  how,  by  exposing  in  all  their  religious 
hideousness  the  evils  of  despotic  usurpation,  and  ^^^ormer. 
by  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  the  true  springs  of  national 
strength,  he  helped  to  reconstruct  the  social  fabric  of  his 
age.  It  remains  to  glance  at  the  services  rendered  by  him 
to  the  cause  of  religious  emancipation. 

In  Klopstock  we  saw  the  poetic  clima^  of  Pietism,  in 
Wieland  the  literary  reflex  of  Rationalism;  Lessing’s  place 
is  above  either  of  these  movements.  To  put  The  historic 
it  in  a word,  he  was  in  the  domain  of  religion  Jhef^eal^^^ 
what  Winckelmann  was  in  the  domain  of  art.  He  religiou. 
foreshadowed,  if  he  did  not  fully  develop,  that  most  pow- 
erful and  most  liberalizing  of  all  modern  ideas:  the  idea  of 
organic  growth.  The  whole  of  Lessing’s  religious  thought 
is  determined  by  the  contrast  between  the  positive  or  his- 
toric and  the  rational  or  ideal  religion.  The  former,  that 
is,  religion  as  embodied  in  the  great  church  organizations  of 
history,  conceives  of  God  as  an  extra-mundane,  supernatu- 
ral being,  ruling  the  world,  his  creation,  after  the  fashion  of 
an  absolute  monarch,  arbitrarily  enacting  and  cancelling 
laws,  and  making  his  will  known  to  humanity  by  special 
decrees  called  revelations.  The  latter,  that  is,  religion  as  it 
presents  itself  to  the  thinking  individual,  conceives  of  God 
as  the  inner  life  of  the  world,  as  the  inherent  unity,  the  im- 
manent law  of  things,  as  a hidden  spiritual  force,  of  which 
our  own  feelings,  thoughts,  and  actions  are  the  truest  reve- 
lations. That  the  latter  view  is  the  logical  consequence 
and  the  consummation  of  Protestantism,  while  the  former 
is  its  direct  opposite  and  negation,  can  be  as  little  ques- 
tioned as  it  could  be  doubted  to  which  of  these  views 
Lessing,  the  friend  of  the  Deists,  the  admirer  of  Spinoza, 
naturally  inclined.  The  remarkable  thing  is  that,  although 
unequivocally  refusing  to  accept  the  belief  in  supernatu- 
ral revelation  for  himself,  he  was  far  from  denying  the 


288  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

services  rendered  to  humanity  by  this  very  belief;  and  that, 
instead  of  joining  the  majority  of  Rationalists  in  condemn- 
ing the  positive  religions  as  the  inventions  of  shrewd  and 
ambitious  priests,  he  saw  in  them  a succession  of  tentative 
efforts  and  a gradual  approach  toward  the  one  and  final, 
ideal  religion. 

Proof  of  this  are  the  three  principal  stages  of  Lessing’s 
religious  activity:  (i)  the  polemics  against  Goeze,  (2) 
Nathan  the  Wise^  and  (3)  The  Education  of  the  Human 
Race. 

Lessing’s  theological  polemics  against  the  pastor  pri- 
marius  Goeze  of  Hamburg  and  his  adherents  (1777-78)  are 
The  con-  among  the  few  controversial  writings  of  the 
troversy  with  world’s  literature  which  are  creative  rather  than 
Qoeze.  destructive.  What  interests  us  in  them  is  not  so 

much  the  annihilation  of  an  arrogant  and  intolerant  church 
dignitary — a type  of  society  which  may  be  crushed  in  indi- 
viduals, but  which  as  a class  seems  to  be  ineradicable ; 
what  interests  us  in  them  and  moves  us  so  profoundly  is  the 
assertion  of  a positive  and  vital  principle  of  modern  thought, 
the  principle  of  free  inquiry  and  unbiased,  impartial  re- 
search, even,  or  rather  above  all,  in  religious  matters. 

It  was  because  Lessing  felt  bound  to  uphold  this  princi- 
ple that  he  gave  publicity  in  the  so-called  Wolfenbuttel 
Vindication  Fragments  to  the  radical  views  concerning  the 

of  free  in-  historical  authenticity  of  the  Bible  and  the 

qmry.  origin  of  the  Christian  religion  held  by  his 

friend  Reimarus — views  which  he  himself  was  far  from 
sharing  as  a whole.  It  was  because  he  saw  this  principle 
endangered  that  he  arose  in  all  his  fearlessness  and  might 
against  the  storm  of  orthodox  indignation  and  obloquy 
called  forth  by  this  publication.  Nothing  could  excel  the 
clearness  with  which  Lessing  in  this  controversy  draws  the 
line  between  the  spirit  and  the  letter,  between  religion  and 
religious  documents,  between  the  endless  motion  of  life  and 
the  petty  narrowness  of  a selfish,  stagnant  formalism. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  289 


He  conjures  up  the  shade  of  Luther,  his  intellectual 
ancestor  and  patron: 

“ Luther!  great,  misunderstood  man!  And  by  none  more  mis- 
understood than  by  the  short-sighted  bigots  who,  with  thy 
slippers  in  their  hands,  shrieking  but  indifferent,  loiter  along  the 
road  trodden  smooth  by  thee!  Thou  hast  freed  us  from  the  yoke 
of  tradition;  who  will  free  us  from  the  more  intolerable  yoke  of 
the  letter  ? Who  will  at  last  bring  us  a Christianity  such  as  thou 
wouldst  now  teach  us,  such  as  Christ  himself  would  teach  ? 

He  inveighs  with  flaming  words  against  those  who  from 
fear  for  their  own  safety  and  quiet  wish  to  check  all 
progress: 

“ O ye  fools  who  would  banish  the  hurricane  from  nature, 
because  here  it  buries  a ship  in  the  sands,  and  there  dashes 
another  against  a rocky  coast.  O ye  hypocrites!  for  we  know 
you.  It  is  not  for  these  unfortunate  ships  that  you  care,  unless 
you  had  a mortgage  on  them;  your  thoughts  are  confined  to 
your  own  little  garden,  your  own  little  conveniences  and  plea- 
sures. The  wicked  hurricane!  Here  it  has  unroofed  a summer- 
house of  yours,  there  rudely  shaken  loaded  trees,  there  over- 
turned your  precious  orangery,  full  seven  earthen  pots.  What 
do  you  care  how  much  good  the  hurricane  otherwise  effects  in 
nature  ? Could  it  not  do  it  without  injuring  your  little  garden  ? 
Why  does  it  not  blow  past  your  hedge  ? or  at  least  have  its 
cheeks  less  full  when  it  approaches  your  landmarks  ? 

He  holds  up,  in  that  most  characteristic  and  most  power- 
ful of  all  his  utterances, the  image  of  the  true  seeker  and 
path-finder: 


Das  Absagungsschreiben  ; WerkeKK\,  \02.  If  one  wishes  to  have 
a vivid  conception  of  the  religious  condition  of  the  educated  classes  in 
Germany  at  the  time  of  Lessing’s  controversy  with  Goeze,  he  should 
read  Nicolai’s  novel  Sebaldus  Not  hanker  (1773-76),  the  Robert  Elsmere 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  Cf.  Gervinus,  Gesch.  d,  d.  Dichtg  V, 
262  f. 

Antigoeze  III;  Werke  XVI,  155  fif. 

Fine  Duplik  (against  one  of  Goeze’s  sympathizers,  the  Braun- 
schweig superintendent  Ress);  /.  c.  26. — Goeze,  incapable  of  grasping 


290  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

‘‘  Not  the  truth  of  which  any  one  is,  or  supposes  himself  to  be, 
possessed,  but  the  upright  endeavour  he  has  made  to  arrive  at 
truth,  makes  the  worth  of  a man.  For  not  by  the  possesion,  but 
by  the  investigation,  of  truth  are  his  powers  expanded,  wherein 
alone  his  ever-growing  perfection  consists.  Possession  makes 
us  easy,  indolent,  proud. — If  God  held  all  truth  shut  in  his  right 
hand,  and  in  his  left  hand  nothing  but  the  ever-restless  instinct 
for  truth,  though  with  the  condition  of  for  ever  and  ever  erring, 
and  should  say  to  me  ‘ Choose!  ’ — I should  bow  humbly  to  his 
left  hand,  and  say,  ‘ Father,  give!  pure  truth  is  for  Thee 
alone!  * ** 

He  compares  religion  to  an  ancient  palace  of  vast  di- 
mensions and  mysterious  architecture,  about  which  there 
is  a great  deal  of  speculation  going  on  among  the  towns- 
people. This  speculation  is  based,  not  upon  the  knowledge 
of  the  palace  itself,  but  upon  a number  of  old  plans,  them- 
selves couched  in  strange  and  hardly  intelligible  terms. 
Everybody  takes  the  liberty  to  interpret  the  terms  accord- 
ing to  his  own  pleasure;  everybody  declares  that  his  own 
interpretation  of  his  plan  solves  the  mystery  of  the  palace. 
Once  at  midnight  there  suddenly  rises  the  cry:  “Fire!  fire 
in  the  palace!  Everybody  rushes  from  his  bed  and  runs 
to  save,  not  the  palace,  but  his  plan.  The  crowd  gathers  on 
the  street.  Everybody  wants  to  point  out  on  his  plan  to 
everybody  else  where  he  thinks  the  palace  is  burning.  “ See, 
neighbour,  here  it  burns!  Here  we  may  best  get  at  the  fire.” 
“No,  neighbour,  here!”  “What  are  you  both  thinking 
of  ? It’s  on  fire  here!  ” “ If  it  were  burning  there,  it 

would  be  of  no  consequence;  but  the  fire  is  here!  ” “ Put 


the  noble  optimism  of  these  words,  wrote  the  following  orthodox  par- 
ody of  them  : Wenn  Gott  mir  in  seiner  Rechten  den  einzigen  im- 

mer  regen  Trieb  nach  Wahrheit,  aber  mit  dem  Zusatze  mich  immer 
und  ewig  zu  irren,  und  in  der  Linken  das  allerschr5cklichste  Schick- 
sal,  vernichtet  zu  werden,  vorhielte  und  sagte  : wahle  ! — so  wiirde  ich 
mit  Zittern  in  seine  Linke  fallen,  und  sagen  : Vater,  vernichte  mich  T 
DLD.  nr.  43-45,  p.  90  Cf.  Erich  Schmidt  1.  c.  II,  459. 

Eine  Farabel ; Werke  XVI,  94  fif. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  29 1 


It  out  there  who  will;  I won’t!’*  ‘‘Nor  I here.”  “Nor  I 
there.”  Through  these  busy  squabblers,  so  Lessing  con- 
cludes, the  palace  might  really  have  burnt  down,  had  it 
been  on  fire.  But  the  terrified  watchmen  had  mistaken  for 
fire  an  aurora  borealis. 

In  short,  to  quote  the  concise,  pointed  language  of  the 
Axiomafa  : 

“ The  letter  is  not  the  spirit,  and  the  Bible  is  not  religion. 
Consequently,  criticisms  of  the  letter  and  of  the  Bible  are  not 
necessarily  criticisms  of  the  spirit  and  of  religion.  There  was 
religion  before  there  was  a Bible.  Christianity  existed  before 
the  evangelists  and  apostles  wrote.  The  Christian  religion  is 
not  true  because  the  evangelists  and  apostles  taught  it;  but  the 
evangelists  and  apostles  taught  it  because  it  is  true.’* 

From  all  this  it  is  clear  that  the  underlying  motive  in 
Lessing’s  theological  polemics  was  his  conviction  that  the 
religious  life  of  the  modern  world  would  be 
doomed  if  it  renounced  the  right  of  rational  in- 
quiry  and  unprejudiced  research.  But  it  is  equally  clear 
that  this  conviction  rested,  not  upon  indifference  to  re- 
ligious problems  or  upon  hostility  to  the  church,  but  on  the 
very  reverse:  on  a supreme  interest  in  the  true  essence 
of  religion  and  in  all  the  religious  phases  and  experiences 
of  the  past.  It  is  this  wonderful  combination  of  boldness 
and  reserve,  of  keenness  and  reverence,  of  fearless  con- 
sistency of  thought  and  conservative  tenderness  of  feeling, 
which  gives  to  these  theological  polemics  all  the  charm 
and  power  of  artistic  creations,  and  has  made  them  for  the 
Protestant  world  what  Pascal’s  Lettres  Provinciales  were  for 
Catholicism:  starting-points  of  a new  life  within  the  old 
forms. 

Forbidden  by  the  state  authorities  to  pursue  the  contro- 
versy with  Goeze  any  further,  Lessing  returned  once  more 


Axiomata'y  1.  c.  II3  ff. 


292  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  his  ‘‘old  pulpit,”  the  stage,  and  created  in  Nathan  the 
Nathawder  (^779)  finest  symbol  of  eighteenth- 

Weise.  century  enlightenment. 

Here  again,  Lessing  is  far  from  preaching  indifference  to 
religious  forms  and  traditions.  In  the  parable  of  the  three 
rings, which  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  whole 
drama,  something  very  different  is  taught.  The 
magic  ring  which  is  transmitted  from  generation 
to  generation,  making  its  owner  master  of  the  house  and 
“ pleasing  to  God  and  man,”  exercises  its  hidden  power 
only  when  worn  by  a confident  believer  in  this  power.  In 
other  words,  faith  in  transmitted  conceptions,  trust  in  ac- 
cepted symbols,  is  a necessary  element  of  religious  life. — 
When  in  course  of  time  the  magic  ring  is  lost,  or  rather, 
when  its  genuineness  is  contested  by  the  possessors  of  two 
other  rings  resembling  it  in  every  particular,  what  is  the 
verdict  of  the  judge  to  whom  the  case  is  submitted  ? “ Let 

every  one  of  you  believe  his  own  ring  the  genuine  one!  ” 
In  other  words,  the  religion  which  was  handed  down  to  us 
by  our  fathers,  in  which  we  and  our  people  live,  which  has 
become  a part  of  ourselves,  this  is  the  natural  and  most 
precious  object  of  our  veneration  and  love;  this  ought  to 
be  made  by  every  one  of  us  the  starting-point  of  our  higher 
life. 

But  while  Lessing  thus,  on  the  one  hand,  asserts  the  le- 
gitimacy and  reasonableness  of  religious  distinctions,  he 
points  at  the  same  time  to  the  common  aim  of  all  religions. 
The  magic  ring  had  the  power  to  make  one  “ pleasing  to 
God  and  man.”  Do  not  the  other  rings,  or  rather  their 
owners,  have  the  same  power  ? Is  not  this  the  proper  test 

Nathan  ( Werke  III)  III,  7.  As  is  well  known,  Lessing  took  the 
raw  material  of  this  parable  from  Boccaccio's  Decamerone  I,  3.  The 
points  mentioned  in  the  following  paragraph  are  Lessing's  own.  An 
excellent  discussion  of  the  subject  in  Kuno  Fischer,  Lessing  als  Refor- 
mator  d.  deutschen  Litteratur  II,  38  ff.  A full  account  of  the  mediae- 
val affiliations  of  the  tale  is  given  by  Erich  Schmidt  /.  c.  II,  491  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  293 

of  superiority  ? Is  there  not  here  a field  for  a nobler  con- 
test than  the  wrangling  about  the  genuineness  or  spurious- 
ness of  the  rings?  a contest  in  enlightenment,  toleration, 
beneficence,  devotion,  love?  In  other  words,  is  not  every 
religion  capable  of  being  made  a stepping-stone  to  noble 
humanity?  Is  not  the  striving  for  human  perfection  a 
ground  on  which  all  religions  may  meet?  And  may  we  not 
hope  for  a time,  should  we  not  help  to  prepare  it,  when  the 
question:  what  do  you  believe?  will  be  superseded  by  the 
question:  what  are  you? 

This,  then,  is  the  great  lesson  of  the  parable.  Let  us  not 
presume  to  throw  over  as  worthless  the  faith  bequeathed  to 
us  by  our  ancestors;  nor  expect  others  to  abandon  their  faith 
for  ours.  Let  every  one  cherish  his  own.  But  let  every 
one  indeed  cherish,  that  is,  cultivate,  refine,  spiritualize,  his 
own.  Let  him  try  to  make  it  the  best,  the  finest  expression 
of  true  humanity;  let  him  strive  to  be  a living  prophecy  of 
the  coming  ideal  religion.®® 

And  now  the  application  of  this  lesson  in  the  characters 
of  the  drama  itself.  Kuno  Fischer  has  admirably  shown 
how  they  range  in  a gradually  ascending  line  Thecha- 
from  the  lowest  type  of  brutal  fanaticism,  repre-  racters. 
sented  by  the  Patriarch,  through  the  narrow  conventional- 
ism of  Daja,  the  aggressive  independence  of  the  Templar, 
the  humble  piety  of  the  Friar,  the  serene  world-contempt  of 
the  Dervis,  the  large-minded  generosity  of  Saladin  and  Sit- 
tah,  the  tender  susceptibility  and  instinctive  nobility  of 


Lessing  was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  masses  were  not  yet 
ripe  for  his  own  noble  cosmopolitanism.  He  hoped,  with  the  best  of 
his  time,  for  a gradual  spread  of  enlightenment,  from  the  educated 
few  downward.  Hence  the  interest  taken  by  him  in  the  progress  of 
Freemasonry,  in  which  he  saw  the  first  symptom  of  the  coming 
brotherhood  of  all  nations  and  all  religions.  Cf.  the  masterly  little 
dialogues  Ernst  und  Falk,  Gesprdche  fur  Freimaurer  (1778.  1780; 
mrkeXVUl,  135  ff.)* 

Lessing  als  Ref,  II,  88  ff. 


294  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

Recha,  to  the  highest  form  of  enlightened  virtue  represented 
by  Nathan.  Here  it  must  suffice  to  say  a few  words  about 
Nathan  himself. 

Nathan  has  been  born  a Jew,  he  calls  himself  a Jew,  to  a 
certain  extent  he  is  a Jew.  He  respects  the  faith  of  his 
forefathers,  he  has  a heart  for  his  race;  he  has 
the  instinct  and  capacity  of  his  race  for  busi- 
ness.  His  conduct  is  by  no  means  without  the  defects 
characteristic  of  his  race.  There  is  a certain  shrewdness 
in  him  which  sometimes  comes  near  making  us  doubt  the 
depth  of  his  feelings.  He  has  a fondness  for  dialectics 
which  occasionally  makes  him  appear  petty  and  hairsplit- 
ting. He  is  at  times  unable  to  repress  a superior  smile 
which  seems  to  spring  from  a half-conscious,  inherited  in- 
stinct that  his  people  is  the  chosen  people  of  God,  the 
people  of  promise  and  grace;  and  then,  again,  there  is  a 
humbleness,  not  to  say  servility,  in  his  behaviour,  which 
seems  to  tell  of  the  humiliations  and  insults  inflicted  upon 
this  most  despised  and  down-trodden  of  all  nations. 

What  is  there  in  this  man  to  make  him  the  highest  type 
of  humane  religion  ? It  is  this.  Without  ceasing  to  be  a 
Jew,  he  has  at  the  same  time  raised  himself  above  the  Jew. 
Although  brought  up  in  the  most  intolerant  of  beliefs,  he 
has  come  to  be  the  most  tolerant  of  men.  Slander,  perse- 
cution, the  saddest  bereavement  have  only  served  to  make 
him  the  most  loving,  the  most  serene,  the  wisest  of  men. 
He  might  have  become  a Shylock,  and  he  did  become — a 
Nathan. 

Two  scenes  may  be  selected  to  show  the  inner  beauty  of 
this  character,  as  it  reveals  itself  to  men  of  widely  differ- 
ing types:  the  haughty  Templar  and  the  humble,  simple- 
minded  Friar. 

The  Templar  has  by  chance  seen  Nathan’s  daughter  in 
danger  of  fire,  and  has  rescued  her.  Too  proud  to  accept 
thanks  from  a Jew,  he  has  avoided  meeting  Nathan  ever 
since.  At  last,  Nathan,  driven  by  sincere  gratitude,  ap- 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  295 

proaches  him  on  the  street/"®  He  offers  him  thanks,  the 
Templar  refuses  it;  he  offers  him  money,  the  Templar  an- 
swers with  an  insult.  ‘‘Well,  perhaps  I’ll  borrow  money 
from  you  when  I need  a new  mantle.  But  don’t  be  alarmed, 
my  old  one  is  still  in  tolerably  good  condition,  except  this 
burn  here  which  it  got  when  I carried  your  daughter 
through  the  fire/’  Nathan  does  not  retort  upon  this  gra- 
tuitous insult  He  bows  down  upon  the  mantle  and  kisses 
the  burnt  spot.  The  Templar  is  perplexed  and  moved. 
“Who  is  this  Jew  to  embarrass  one  by  such  refinement  of 
feeling  ? But,  after  all,  he  is  a Jew;  after  all,  he  belongs  to 
that  detestable  people  which  first  claimed  God  exclusively 
for  itself,  and  which  is  responsible  for  all  the  intolerance  and 
fanaticism  of  later,  Christian  times.”  When  the  Templar 
gives  utterance  to  these  feelings,  Nathan  cannot  contain 
himself  any  longer.  In  this  very  indignation  of  the  Chris- 
tian knight,  in  his  bitter  arraignment  of  Jewish  intolerance 
and  exclusiveness,  he  recognises  his  own  kindred,  his  own 
intellectual  ally. 

Come,  come,  we  must,  we  must 
Be  friends!  Despise  my  nation  just  as  much 
As  pleases  you.  We  neither  of  us  chose 
Our  nation  for  ourselves.  Are  we  our  nation  ? 

What  is  a nation  ? Are  then  Jew  and  Christian 
First  Jew  and  Christian,  and  but  later,  men  ? 

Ah!  if  I had  but  found  in  you  one  more 
To  whom  it  is  enough  to  be  a man! 

And  now  the  Templar,  too,  casts  away  prejudice  and 
conceit.  In  the  despised  Jew  he  has  found  a noble,  supe- 
rior man: 

That  have  you,  Nathan!  Yes,  by  heaven,  you  have! 

Your  hand!  I am  ashamed  but  for  one  moment 
To  have  mistaken  you. 

The  scene  with  the  Friar  leads  us  still  more  deeply  into 


Nathan  II,  5.  Trsl.  by  E.  K.  Corbett. 


101  Ib.  IV.  7. 


296  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  secret  of  Nathan’s  greatness.  It  shows  us  that  the  wis- 
dom, the  imperturbable  serenity  of  his  mind,  have  been  won 
by  the  hardest  of  struggles,  the  most  fearful  of  trials;  that 
they  rest  upon  the  most  painful  of  victories:  the  victory 
over  self,  and  on  resignation  to  the  most  arduous  of  duties: 
love  of  one’s  enemy. 

The  Christians  have  murdered  his  wife  and  seven  hope- 
ful sons.  He,  in  return,  has  adopted  a Christian  child  as  his 
own.  This  has  happened  long  ago.  None  of  the  persons 
in  the  drama  knows  of  it,  except  the  Friar;  and  he  only 
knows  about  the  adoption  of  the  Christian  child,  since  he 
at  the  time  brought  the  poor  little  orphan  to  Nathan.  Now 
the  rumour  spreads  in  Jerusalem  that  there  is  a Jew  in  the 
city  bringing  up  a Christian  girl  in  the  Jewish  faith.  The 
church  authorities  become  alarmed;  an  investigation  is 
ordered,  and  the  good  Friar  goes  to  warn  Nathan  against 
the  rage  of  the  Patriarch.  Now  at  last  Nathan  prevails 
upon  himself  to  tell  his  history: 

To  you 

Alone  do  I relate  it;  yes,  alone 
To  simple  piety  do  I relate  it: 

For  it  alone  doth  understand  what  deeds 
The  man  that  doth  resign  himself  to  God 
Can  bring  himself  to  do. — 

With  the  child 
You  met  me  at  Darhn:  but  know  not  this, 

That  but  few  days  before,  in  Gath,  the  Christians 
Had  murdered  all  the  Jews,  with  wife  and  child: 

Know  not,  that  in  this  number  was  my  wife, 

With  seven  hopeful  sons,  who  one  and  all 
Within  my  brother’s  house,  where  I had  put  them 
For  refuge,  burned  to  death. — 

When  you  arrived,  three  days  and  nights  Td  lain 
In  dust  and  ashes  before  God,  and  wept. 

Wept  ? Aye,  and  entered  into  judgment  too 
’Gainst  God,  with  rage  and  anger:  cursed  myself 
And  the  whole  world;  sworn  against  Christendom 
Hate  never  to  be  reconciled. — 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  297 


Yet  by  degrees 

Reason  returned.  She  spake  in  softest  tones: 

‘ And  yet  God  is!  Yet  that  was  God’s  decree! 
Well  then, — come,  practise  what  thou  long  enough 
Hast  comprehended:  what,  if  thou  but  wilFst, 

Is  surely  not  more  difficult  to  practise 
Than  comprehend.  Arise!  * And  I arose, 

And  cried  to  God:  ' I will,  if  thou  but  will’st 
That  so  I should.*  Meanwhile  did  you  alight 
From  horseback,  giving  me  the  child,  wrapped  up 
Within  your  mantle.  What  you  said  to  me, 

And  I to  you,  I have  forgotten.  But 
This  much  I know:  I took  the  child,  and  bore 
And  laid  it  on  my  bed;  kissed  it,  and  fell 
Upon  my  knees,  and  sobbed,  * Ah,  God,  of  seven 
One  back  again  already ! ' 

Lajf  Brother. 

Nathan!  Nathan! 

You  are  a Christian!  Yes,  you  are,  by  God! 

A better  ne’er  existed! 


Hathan. 

Happy  we! 

For  what  makes  me  to  you  a Christian?  that 
Makes  you  to  me  a Jew! 

During  the  last  year  of  his  life,  Lessing  formulated  his 
religious  views  systematically  in  the  inspiring  little  treatise 

The  Education  of  the  Human  Race  (1780).^°’*  DieErzielmng 
The  fundamental  thought  of  the  theological  po-  des  Menschen- 
lemics  and  of  Nathan — the  conviction  that  the  sescMechts. 
value  of  a religion  lies,  not  in  its  doctrines,  but  in  its  views 
of  life;  that  in  all  positive  religions  there  is  something  of 
the  divine  truth;  that  they  are  all  stations,  as  it  were,  on 
the  royal  path  toward  the  final  ideal  religion — finds  here  an 
expression  still  more  precise  and  definite.  Here  the  idea 
of  organic  growth,  which  was  alluded  to  at  the  beginning  of 


WerkeYKlW,  185  if. 


298  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


this  discussion,  is  set  forth,  disguised,  it  is  true,  in  theologi- 
cal language,  yet  clearly  and  unequivocally. 

Lessing  represents  the  successive  stages  in  the  history 
of  religion  as  a process  of  education.  Providence  is  the 
Religious  teacher,  mankind  the  pupil;  the  various  systems 
evolution.  of  theology,  or,  as  Lessing  says,  revelations,  are 
the  text-books. 

Through  education  the  pupil  obtains  nothing  which  he 
could  not  obtain  from  himself;  he  only  obtains  it  more 
quickly  and  more  easily.  So  revelation  imparts  nothing  to 
mankind  which  mankind,  if  left  to  itself,  would  not  dis- 
cover by  its  own  reasoning;  only  revelation  imparts  it  more 
quickly  and  more  easily. 

In  order  to  be  effective,  education  must  adapt  itself  to 
the  mental  development  of  the  pupil.  In  like  manner,  reve- 
lation must  be  adapted  to  the  various  stages  in  the  progress 
of  mankind.  Since  primitive  mankind  is  crude  and  sensual, 
primitive  revelation  also  must  be  crude  and  sensual.  The 
Jews,  in  their  early  period,  were  not  capable  of  conceiving 
a strict  monotheism  or  of  entertaining  a truly  spiritual  view 
of  life;  consequently,  the  divine  Pedagogue  revealed  himself 
to  them,  not  as  the  one  God,  but  as  the  most  powerful  of 
gods,  and,  instead  of  holding  out  to  them  the  prospect  of 
an  immortal  life,  he  held  before  them  the  discipline  of 
earthly  rewards  and  punishments.  Thus,  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, we  have  the  first,  elementary  text-book  of  humanity. 

With  the  gradual  progress  of  civilization  the  people  be- 
rame  susceptible  of  higher  views  of  divinity,  and  when 
Christ  came  they  were  ready  to  understand  God  as  a 
soiritual  being,  and  to  accept  the  idea  of  immortality. 
This,  then:  a true,  spiritual  monotheism,  and  the  idea  of 
future  rewards  and  punishments,  is  the  essence  of  the 
second  text-book  of  humanity,  the  New  Testament. 

Is  this  to  be  the  end? — What  is  the  object  of  education  ? 
To  develop  men.  What  is  the  object  of  revelation  ? To 
develop  humanity.  Fully  developed  men  need  text-books 


THE  AGE  OF  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  299 


no  longer;  and  humanity,  when  fully  developed,  will  need 
no  revelations.  A time  must  come  when  human  reason 
will  be  able  to  see  the  divine  without  the  help  of  symbols; 
when  the  good  will  be  done,  not  for  the  sake  of  future  re- 
wards, but  because  it  is  the  good;  when  God  will  be  found, 
not  without,  but  within. 

None  of  Lessing’s  works  is  so  characteristic  of  his  reli- 
gious position,  and  indeed  of  his  whole  intellectual  attitude, 
as  this  little  essay.  Lessing  does  not  break  loose  from  the 
traditional  belief,  he  accepts  its  premises,  he  adopts  its  phra- 
seology. Yet,  under  his  very  hands,  the  old  seems  to  assume 
a new  and  different  life;  its  meaning  changes;  and  having 
started  with  the  conception  of  an  extra-mundane  deity,  he 
at  last  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  a living  universe.  The 
theist  before  our  very  eyes  develops  into  a pantheist. 

Let  us  return  to  the  starting-point  of  this  chapter.  In 
the  same  year  in  which  Lessing  gave  to  the  pei^Littera 
world  his  intellectual  testament,  Frederick  the  tnreAlle- 
Great,  he  too  not  far  from  the  grave,  suddenly 
appeared  among  the  literary  critics,  with  his  startling 
essay  De  la  Litterature  Allemande.^^^  This  little  book  is 
perhaps  the  truest  index  of  what  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter  was  called  the  dualism  of  German  life  during  this 
epoch.  The  names  of  Klopstock,  Wieland,  Lessing,  do 
not  appear  in  it;  Gellert  is  spoken  of  as  the  foremost 
representative  of  German  literature;  the  bulk  of  the  paper 


DID.  nr.  16.  Cf.  B.  Suphan,  Friedr.  des  Grossen  Schrift  uber 
d.  d,  Litt.  H.  Proehle,  Fr.  d.  Gr.  u.  d.  d.  Lit.  p,  165  ff.  G.  Krause, 
Fr.  d.  Gr.  u.  d.  d.  Poesie p.  29  ff. — Frederick’s  conception  of  his  own 
services  to  German  culture  may  be  gathered  from  what  he  said  to 
Mirabeau  in  answer  to  the  question  why,  being  the  German  Caesar, 
he  had  not  also  endeavoured  to  become  the  Augustus  of  German  lite- 
rature : “You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  By  allowing  the 
intellectual  life  of  Germany  to  take  its  own  course,  I have  done  more 
for  the  Germans  than  I could  possibly  have  done  by  giving  them  a 
literature.”  Krause p.  35. 


300  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

consists  in  pedantic  considerations  about  the  defects  of 
the  German  language,  and  in  amateurish  propositions  for 
its  improvement.”  The  wonderful  revival  of  the  Ger- 
man mind,  the  struggle  of  a whole  generation  for  spirit- 
ual freedom  and  humane  culture,  seems  to  have  been 
going  on  without  disturbing  the  sphere  of  the  lonely  auto- 
crat on  the  throne  of  Prussia.  And  yet  he  himself,  as  we 
know,  was  a part  of  this  movement.  Without  his  heroic 
career,  without  his  enlightened  views,  this  movement,  al- 
though bound  to  come,  would  probably  have  been  delayed 
and  would  certainly  have  been  different.  And  if  he  failed 
to  grasp  the  new  life  which  was  pressing  upon  him  on  all 
sides,  he  seems  at  least  to  have  had  an  instinctive  feeling 
of  its  presence:  he  concludes  his  essay  by  prophesying  a 
golden  age  of  German  literature  near  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  AND  THE 
CLIMAX  OF  INDIVIDUALISM. 

(The  End  of  the  Eighteenth  and  the  Beginning  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century.) 

I.  The  Storm-and-Stress  Movement. 

The  golden  age  of  modern  German  literature  and  the 
French  Revolution  are  not  only  contemporary  with  each 
other,  they  are  different  phases  of  the  same  great  emanci- 
pation movement,  the  gradual  rise  of  which  throughout  the 
eighteenth  century  we  have  been  studying  in  the  two 
preceding  chapters. 

In  the  seventh  and  eighth  decades  of  the  century,  when 
the  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang*  agitation  was  at  its  highest,  it  looked 
as  though  Germany  instead  of  France  was  to  be  Extreme  indi- 
the  scene  of  a violent  social  upheaval.  Never,  vidualismof 
with  the  one  exception  of  the  Romantic  move-  ^gtresTm^^ 
ment,  which  as  a matter  of  fact  was  nothing  ment. 
but  a revived  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang,*  has  individualism  been 
preached  with  greater  vehemence  and  aggressiveness  than 
it  was  preached  by  the  leaders  of  this  agitation. 

Destruction  of  every  barrier  to  individual  growth;  war 
against  authority  of  whatever  kind;  the  glorification  of 
primitive,  uncorrupted  nature,  of  instinct,  of  passion,  of 
genius;  the  vilification  of  the  existing  social  order,  of  re- 
gularity, of  learning,  of  conscious  effort — these  were  the 
watchwords  which  inspired  the  generation  succeeding  that 
of  Klopstock  and  Lessing. 

It  was  the  time  when  Hamann  (1730-88),  Hhe  Magus 

301 


302  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

of  the  North/  wrote  in  sibylline  utterances  of  the  lofty 
freedom  of  Oriental  literature,  contrasting  with  it  the  shal- 
lowness and  meagreness  of  modern  life/  ‘‘  Nature  works 
through  senses  and  passions.  He  who  mutilates  these 
organs,  how  can  he  feel  ? Are  paralyzed  sinews  capable  of 
motion  ? You  wish  to  rule  Nature,  and  you  fetter  your  own 
hands  and  feet  ? If  passions  are  organs  of  dishonour,  do 
they  therefore  cease  to  be  weapons  of  manhood  ? Passion 
alone  gives  to  abstraction  hands,  feet,  wings;  passion  alone 
gives  to  images  and  symbols,  spirit,  life,  language.  A heart 
without  passions  is  a head  without  ideas.''  It  was  the  time 
when  the  youthful  Herder,  Hamann's  pupil,  revelled  in 
panegyrics  on  untutored  popular  life  and  unstudied  popular 
song.  It  was  the  time  when  Basedow  (1723-90)  filled  the 
air  with  his  boisterous  call  for  a new  education  based  on 
individuality  and  the  contact  with  real  life^;  when  Lavater 
(1741-1801)  by  his  bold  generalizations  about  a mysterious 
correspondence  between  spiritual  force  and  physical  form 
seemed  to  give  a new  and  higher  aspect  to  individual  ex- 
istence.^ It  was  the  time  when  the  German  drama,  novel, 
and  lyrics,  seemed  to  have  become  a vast  battlefield,  on 
which  there  were  arrayed  against  each  other  social  preju- 
dice, class  tyranny,  moral  corruption,  on  the  one  hand;  and 
free  humanity,  self-asserting  individuals,  the  apostles  of  a 
new  morality,  on  the  other. 

Where  did  this  agitation  originate  ? What  was  its  rela- 


* Cf.  Hettner/.  c.  III.  i,/.  308  ff.  J.  Minor,  Hamann  ins,  Bedeutung 
f,  d.  Sturm-  u.  Drangperiode.  The  quotation  is  from  Kreuzzuge  des 
Philologen  (1762);  Schriften  ed.  Roth  II,  280.  286  ff. 

^ Uis  Meikodenbuck  filr  Vdter  und  Mutter  appea^red  in  1770;  the 
Elementarwerk  1774.  In  the  same  year  Basedow  established  the  Des- 
sau ‘ Philanthropinum.' 

3 His  Physiognomische  Fragmente  were  published  between  1775  and 
1778.  Cf.  Goethe’s  masterly  characterization  of  Lavater  and  Base- 
dow, Dichtg  u,  Wahrh.  book  14;  Werke  XXII,  150  ff.  A.  Sauer,  Stur- 
mer  urA  Dr  anger;  DNL.  LXXIX,  14  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


303 


tion  to  the  three  great  leaders  of  the  older  generation, 
Klopstock,  Wieland,  Lessing? 

Although  the  movement  would  have  been  impossible  had 
it  not  been  preceded  by  Lessing’s  intrepid,  though  con- 
servative, work  of  reform,  its  conservatism  prevented  him 
from  having  a large  personal  influence  upon  the  younger 
and  more  radical  minds  of  the  age.  Wieland  appeared  to 
the  ‘Sturm  und  Drang’  men  only  from  his  frivolous  side; 
he  was  considered  by  most  of  them*  as  the  very  incarnation 
of  artificiality  and  corruption;  he  and  Voltaire  were  held 
up  to  scorn  and  contempt  as  the  two  great  enemies  and 
destroyers  of  morality.  Klopstock,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
the  patron  saint  of  the  movement;  not  only  at  Gottingen, 
where  Voss,  Boie,  Holty,  Miller,*^  the  brothers  Stolberg, 
and  the  rest  of  the  so-called  ‘ Hainbiindler  ’ went  into  hys- 
terics over  his  name,  but  all  over  Germany  he  was  at  that 
time  worshipped  as  the  greatest  man  of  the  nation.  Yet 
even  the  effect  of  Klopstock’s  influence  would  have  been 
less,  but  for  the  quiver  of  feverish  emotion  into  which  the 
intellectual  world  of  Germany  was  thrown  by  the  man  who 
more  powerfully  and  eloquently  than  any  other  had  ex- 
pressed that  longing  for  nature,  for  freedom,  for  individu- 
ality, for  humanity,  which  we  have  seen  cropping  out  again 
and  again  in  German  literature  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries:  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  conceive  of  the  ‘ Sturm  und 
Drang  ’ movement  without  Rousseau’s  Nouvelle  Heloise  and 
Emile,  It  is  undeniable  that  it  was  the  stimulus  received 
from  France  which  set  this  agitation  in  motion.  But  it  must 
at  once  be  added  that,  at  first  at  least,  the  agitation  assumed 
in  Germany  proportions  far  more  imposing  than  in  France. 

Leaving  aside  for  the  present  the  youthful  works  of 

^ A notable  exception  to  this  is  the  unquestionable  influence  exerted 
by  Wieland  upon  Heinse.  Cf.  Hettner  /.  c.  288. 

For  Miller’s  Siegwart  perhaps  the  most  sentimental  pro- 

duction of  this  group,  cf.  Er.  Schmidt,  Charakteristiken  p.  178  ff. 


304  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Goethe  and  Schiller,  which,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say. 

Literary  repre-  were  among  the  most  remarkable  productions  of 

sentations  of  period,  what  is  there  in  the  French  drama 

political  and  . 

social  misery,  or  lyrics  of  the  seventh  and  eighth  decades  of 
the  eighteenth  century  which  in  bitterness  of  invective 
against  the  nobility,  against  militarism,  against  princely 
despotism  could  at  all  be  compared  with  the  works  even  of 
such  men  as  Maximilian  Klinger,  Reinhold  Lenz,  Heinrich 
Leopold  Wagner,  Christian  Daniel  Schubart  ? 

Take  such  a play  as  jDer  Hofmeister  by  Lenz  (1774). 
The  principal  figure  is  a weakly,  sentimental  enthusiast 
Lenz’sHof-  whom  the  ambition  and  poverty  of  his  father 
meister,  force  to  accept  a position  as  resident  tutor  in 
a noble  family,  where  of  course  he  falls  desperately  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  the  house.  He  ruins  the  girl  and  is 
made  to  ruin  himself.  But  is  this  to  be  wondered  at  ? Is 
it  strange  that  he  loses  every  spark  of  self-respect  and 
human  dignity  ? Has  he  not  been  treated  worse  than  a 
slave  ? Is  it  not  society  rather  than  he  himself  that  has 
made  him  a wretch  ? The  mistress  of  the  house  and  a caller 
converse  with  each  other  about  the  new  ballet-dancer  ; the 
tutor,  to  whom  his  Leipzig  student  days  have  given  a 
taste  for  the  theatre,  takes  the  liberty  of  throwing  in  a re- 
mark, when  the  lady  interrupts  him^:  ‘‘You  should  know, 
my  friend,  that  domestics  do  not  speak  in  the  presence  of 
persons  of  rank.  Go  to  your  room.  Who  has  asked  you  ? 
— And  the  master  of  the  house,  finding  him  and  his  pupil 
at  their  studies,  indulges  in  the  following  apostrophe®: 
“ That’s  right.  That’s  what  I want.  And  if  the  rascal 
doesn’t  know  his  lesson,  preceptor,  beat  him  over  the 
head  with  the  book,  till  he  can’t  stand  ! I’ll  fix  you,  you 
good-for-nothing  ! You  shall  learn  something,  or  I’ll  whip 
you  until  your  bowels  burst  ! And  you,  sir,  no  letting  up, 
if  you  please,  and  no  loafing  and  lounging ! Work  won’t 


Der  Hofmeister  1,3;  DNL.  LXXX,  7. 


Ib.  I,  4. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


305 


make  you  sick.  That's  only  an  idea  of  you  schoolmasters. 
— Keep  your  seat,  sir ; keep  your  seat,  I say.  What  is  the 
chair  there  for,  but  to  sit  upon  ? You  have  travelled  in 
the  world,  you  say,  and  don’t  know  that  yet  ? " 

Or  take  the  Kindermorderin  by  Wagner  (1776).  What 

a picture  of  depravity  and  destruction  brought  into  the 

family  of  an  honest  citizen  through  the  brutal 

licentiousness  of  an  all-powerful  soldiery!  An 

r -I  1 dermordenn. 

officer  is  quartered  in  the  house  of  a buteher. 

In  the  absence  of  the  husband,  he  inveigles  mother  and 
daughter  to  go  with  him  to  a public  masquerade.  After 
the  ball  he  takes  them  to  a house  of  ill  repute.  The 

mother  is  drugged  into  sleep,  while  the  daughter  falls  a 
victim  to  the  officer’s  licentiousness.  This  is  the  revolting 
sequence  of  events  in  the  first  act.  The  rest  may  be  ima- 
gined. The  lawless  libertine  poses  as  a devoted  lover,  he 
holds  out  a promise  of  marriage.  For  months  the  girl  lives 
in  hope  and  despair,  pursued  by  shame  and  repentance,  and 
in  continual  dread  of  her  stern,  austere  father.  At  last,  like 
Gretchen  in  Goethe's  Faust^  she  takes  flight.  The  mother 
dies  from  grief.  The  daughter,  frenzied  by  misery  and  starva- 
tion, kills  her  infant  child,  and  is  put  to  death  by  the  sword.  ^ 

Or,  read  a description  of  the  misery  and  oppression  of 
the  peasantry  such  as  is  given  in  the  following  episode 
of  Faust's  Leben^  Thaten  und  Hdllenfahrt^  by  Kiinger»g 
Maximilian  Klinger.  ® The  devil  and  Faust  are  Faust, 
riding  one  day  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Fulda,  when  under 

’ DLD.  nr.  13  {DNL.  LXXX,  283  ff.).  A similar  subject  is  treated 
in  Eif  Soldaten  by  Lenz  (1776;  DNL.  LXXX,  83  ff.).  Cf.,  also,  Bur- 
ger’s ballad  Des  Pfarrers  Tochter  von  Taubenhain  (1781;  DNI^. 
LXXVIII,  241)  and  Schiller^s  Die  Kindsmorderin  Sdmmtl.  Schr. 

I,  226).  Erich  Schmidt,  H.  L.  Wagner^  p.  70  ff.  137  ff. 

® DNL.  LXXIX,  201  ff.  Although  this  work  was  published  only  in 
1791,  its  conception  undoubtedly  goes  back  to  the  seventies,  and  the 
episode  quoted  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Storm  and  Stress.  Cf. 
Ch.  G.  Salzmann’s  Carl  v.  Carlsberg  oder  iiber  das  menschliche  Elend 
(1783-88). 


3o6  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


an  oak  tree  near  a village  they  see  a peasant-woman  sitting 
with  her  children,  lifeless  pictures  of  pain  and  dull  despair. 
Faust  rides  up  to  them  and  inquires  the  cause  of  their 
misery.  The  woman  looks  at  him  blankly  for  a long  time. 
At  last,  with  sobs  and  tears,  she  tells  something  like  the 
following : 

“ ‘ For  the  past  three  years  my  husband  has  not  been  able  to 
pay  the  taxes  to  the  lord  bishop.  The  first  year  the  crops  failed; 
the  second,  the  wild  boars  of  the  bishop  ruined  everything;  and 
the  third  year,  the  bishop’s  hunt  went  over  our  fields.  Since 
the  bailiff  was  continually  threatening  my  husband  with  eviction, 
he  was  going  to-day  to  drive  a fattened  calf  and  his  last  pair  of 
oxen  to  Frankfurt,  to  sell  them  in  order  to  pay  his  taxes.  As  he 
was  driving  out  of  the  yard,  the  steward  of  the  bishop  came  and 
demanded  the  calf  for  the  bishop’s  table.  My  husband  repre- 
sented to  him  his  distress,  and  implored  him  to  consider  what  a 
cruelty  it  would  be  to  force  this  calf  from  him  for  nothing,  which 
in  Frankfurt  he  could  sell  for  a good  price.  The  steward  asked 
whether  he  did  not  know  that  a peasant  was  not  allowed  to  trans- 
port anything  beyond  the  frontier  which  belonged  to  him,  the 
steward.  While  they  were  talking,  the  bailiff  with  his  constables 
appeared.  Instead  of  taking  my  husband’s  part,  he  had  the  oxen 
unhitched;  the  steward  took  the  calf;  the  constables  drove  me 
and  the  children  from  hearth  and  home;  and  my  despairing 
husband  cut  his  throat  in  the  barn.  There!  see  him  under  this 
sheet!  We  sit  here  to  guard  his  body  from  the  wild  beasts;  for 
the  priest  is  not  willing  to  bury  him.’  She  tore  the  white  sheet 
from  the  corpse,  and  sank  to  the  ground.  Faust  started  back  at 
the  terrible  sight.  He  cried,  ‘ Mankind!  mankind!  is  this  thy 
lot  ? Did  God  allow  this  unfortunate  man  to  be  born,  that  a ser- 
vant of  his  religion  should  drive  him  into  suicide  ? ’ ” 

Faust  rides  to  the  bishop's  palace.  The  bishop,  a ‘ fat, 
red,  jovial  prelate,'  invites  him  to  the  table.  During  the 
dinner  Faust,  still  quivering  with  excitement,  relates  what 
he  has  seen  and  heard  in  the  morning.  Nobody  seems  to 
pay  attention  to  it.  Faust  grows  all  the  more  earnest  and 
aggressive.  The  bishop,  to  divert  the  conversation,  says  to 
the  steward:  ‘ Steward,  that’s  a nice  calf’s  head  there  in  the 
centre  of  the  table.'  Steward  : ^ Why,  that’s  the  head  of 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


307 


Hans  Ruprecht's  calf/  Bishop:  ‘Well,  well!  Ail  the  bet- 
ter ! Let  me  carve  it/  The  steward  places  the  platter 
before  the  bishop.  Faust  whispers  something  into  the 
devil’s  ear,  and  at  the  moment  when  the  bishop  puts  his 
knife  on  the  calf’s  head,  it  is  changed  into  the  head  of 
Ruprecht  staring  wild  and  bloody  into  the  bishop’s  eyes. 
The  bishop  drops  the  knife,  and  falls  into  a fainting  fit,  and 
the  whole  company  sit  paralyzed  and  terror-stricken/ 

Or,  finally,  listen  to  the  fierce  denunciation  of  princely 
voluptuousness  and  avarice  in  Schubart’s  Furstengruft 
(1781).^°  There  they  lie,  the  remnants  of  a 

proud  past,  once  the  idols  of  a world,  now  the 

c A A ^ . Fiirstengruft. 

prey  of  worms  and  decay  ! 1 he  hand  which 

once  threw  a freeman  into  chains,  because  he  spoke  the 
truth,  has  now  shrivelled  to  a bone.  Dried  up  are  the 
channels  in  which  once  wanton  blood  was  boiling,  poison- 
ing virtue  of  soul  and  body.  They  who  petted  dogs  and 
horses  and  foreign  wenches,  and  allowed  genius  and  wis- 
dom to  starve,  they  are  themselves  now  left  alone  and 
friendless. 

Weckt  sie  nur  nicht  mit  eurem  bangen  Achzen, 

Ihr  Scharen,  die  sie  arm  gemacht, 

Verscheucht  die  Raben,  dass  von  ihrem  Krachzen 
Kein  Wiitrich  hier  erwacht! 

Hier  klatsche  nicht  des  armen  Landmanns  Peitsche, 

Die  nachts  das  Wild  vom  Acker  scheucht! 

An  diesem  Gitter  weile  nicht  der  Deutsche, 

Der  siech  voriiberkeucht! 

Hier  heule  nicht  der  bleiche  Waisenknabe, 

Dem  ein  Tyrann  den  Vater  nahm; 

Nie  fluche  hier  der  Kriippel  an  dem  Stabe, 

Von  fremdem  Solde  lahm! 


5 Cf.  Burger’s  Der  wilde  Jdger  {DNL,  LXXVIII,  231)  and  Voss’s 
Die  Leibeigenen  {Gedickte  il). 

DNL.  LXXXl,  375  ff. 


3o8  social  forces  in  german  litera  ture. 

Damit  die  Qualer  nicht  zu  friih  erwachen, 

Seid  menschlicher,  erweckt  sie  nicht. 

Ha!  friih  genug  wird  iiber  ihnen  krachen 

Der  Donner  am  Gericht! 

Evidently  there  was  plenty  of  inflammable  material  in 
Eevolutionary  serve  as  fuel  for  a revolution.  And 

spirit.  there  was  plenty  of  revolutionary  spirit  also  to 

kindle  the  latent  fire  into  open  conflagation. 

Nur  Freiheitsschwert  ist  Schwert  fiir  das  Vaterland! 

Wer  Freiheitsschwert  hebt,  flammt  durch  das  Schlachtgewiihl 

Wie  Blitz  des  Nachtsturms!  Stiirzt  Palaste! 

Stiirze  Tyrann,  dem  Verderber  Gottes! 

O Namen,  Namen  festlich  wie  Siegsgesang! 

Tell!  Hermann!  Klopstock!  Brutus!  Timoleon! 

O ihr,  wem  freie  Seele  Gott  gab, 

Flammend  ins  eherne  Herz  gegrabenl 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  look  in  such  effusions  as  these — 
they  are  from  Fritz  von  Stolberg’s  famous  Ode  to  Liberty 
(1775)  would  be  in  vain  to  look  here  for  any  dis- 

tinct political  programme  or  for  a serious  plan  of  action  of 
any  kind.  These  young  champions  of  freedom  were  so 
absorbed  in  their  own  feelings  that  they  had  no  time  or 
strength  left  for  practical  exertion.  Yet,  that  the  very  ex- 
pression of  sentiments  like  these  pointed  toward  a coming 
revolution,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  And  what  else  but  revo- 
lutionary was  that  craving  for  Klopstockian  originality,  for 
the  Nature  of  Rousseau,  for  the  weirdness  and  wildness 
of  Ossian,  which  again  and  again  breaks  out  in  the  writ- 
ings of  these  years  ? What  else  but  revolutionary  were  the 
favourite  heroes  of  this  generation:  Faust,  the  rebel  against 
tradition  and  accepted  wisdom;  Prometheus,  the  titanic 
despiser  of  the  Olympians,  the  champion  of  untrammelled 


**  Die  Freiheit  Ges,  Werke  I,  19.  Cf.  Goethe’s  characteriza- 

tion of  the  brothers  Stolberg,  Dichtg  u.  Wahrh.  b,  18;  Werke  XXIII, 
53  fl. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


309 


humanity ; and  so  many  similar  names  of  legend,  history, 
or  fiction  ? 

In  Klinger's  drama  Sturm  mid  Drang  (1776),  the  influ- 
ence of  which  is  demonstrated  by  the  fact  that  it  has  given 
the  name  to  the  whole  movement,  the  principal  ^ 

hero,  from  mere  excess  of  vitality  and  an  indefi-  gturm  und 
nite  craving  for  boundless  activity,  runs  away  to  Drang, 
take  part  in  the  American  Revolution. 

“ I had  to  run  away,”  he  says,^*  ” to  get  out  of  this  fearful 
restlessness  and  uncertainty.  Have  been  everything.  Became 
a day-labourer  to  be  something.  Lived  on  the  Alps,  pastured 
goats,  lay  day  and  night  under  the  boundless  vault  of  the  heavens, 
cooled  by  the  winds,  burning  with  an  inner  fire.  Nowhere  rest, 
nowhere  repose.  See,  thus  I am  glutted  by  impulse  and  power, 
and  cannot  work  it  out  of  me.  I am  going  to  take  part  in  this 
campaign  as  a volunteer;  there  I can  expand  my  soul,  and  if  they 
do  me  the  favour  to  shoot  me  down, — all  the  better.” 

In  Die  Zwillinge  (1776),  perhaps  the  most  powerful  of  all 
of  Klinger's  productions,  Guelfo,  the  fratricide, 
gives  vent  to  his  untamable  passion  in  the  fol-  Zwillinge. 
lowing  manner 

” Has  not  everything  a sting  for  revenge  ? Does  not  the  worm 
under  thy  foot  coil  up  and  try  to  avenge  itself?  I have  hated 
him  from  the  cradle,  hated  him  from  the  hour  when  his  vanity 
wanted  to  overreach  me,  hated  him  from  his  first  childish  babble. 
Ha!  Did  he  not  once  in  sport  call  me  ‘ little  Guelfo  ’ ? Did  I not 
strike  him  down  for  it  ? The  clothes  he  wore  I hated.  Did  he 
wear  a coat  of  the  colour  of  mine,  I would  tear  mine  to  pieces. 
When  all  the  boys  had  imitated  my  firm  step,  he  also  wanted  to 
copy  it.  But  I worked  at  my  knees  and  worked  until  my  step 
had  changed. — It  seems  to  me  sometimes  I hate  Camilla,  because 
I saw  her  lips  on  his.  And  when  I think  what  life  is,  how  one,  who 


12  Sturm  u.  Drang  I,  i;  DNL.  LXXIX,  68.  Cf.  Wagner’s  Kin- 
derm.  IV,  i : ” Noch  heut’  macht’  ich  mich  auf  den  Weg  nach  Ame- 
rika,  und  half’  fiir  die  Freiheit  streiten.” 

Die  Zwillinge  III,  i;  L c.  40.  37.  For  the  relation  of  Klinger’s 
drama  to  Leisewitz’s  Julius  von  Taren^  ' ^tner/.  c.  III.  i,/.  351  f. 


310  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


has  a powerful  soul,  lies  on  the  ground,  and  another,  a feeble, 
vain,  coaxing  sycophant,  steps  over  him  and  takes  a high  place! 
I am  only  Guelfo,  a man  by  his  deeds  terrible  alike  to  friend 
and  foe.  And  there,  Ferdinando,  a weak,  miserable,  toy  mani- 
kin, with  a bit  of  a girl’s  heart,  talking  incessantly  about  senti- 
ment.— I must,  I must!  Fate  has  spoken,  I must!  The  angel 
of  Death  flourishes  his  bloody  sword  over  me  and  touches  my 
soul!  I must,  I must! 

Maler  Muller,  another  of  these  young  fire-eaters,  prefaces 
MalerMiiller’s  drama  Faust's  Leben  (1778)  with  the  follow- 
Panst.  ing  reflection 

“ Faust  was  one  of  the  favourite  heroes  of  my  childhood, 
because  I early  recognised  him  as  a great  fellow,  a fellow  who 
feels  all  his  power,  feels  the  bridle  which  Fate  has  put  upon  him, 
and  tries  to  throw  it  off,  who  has  the  courage  to  hurl  everything 
down  that  steps  in  his  way  to  check  him. — Is  it  not  in  human 
nature  to  lift  one’s  self  as  high  as  possible,  to  be  fully  what  one 
feels  he  might  be  ? The  grumbling,  too,  against  Fate  and  the 
world,  which  hold  us  down,  which  force  our  noble  self,  our  inde- 
pendent will  into  the  yoke  of  conventions,  is  in  human  nature. 
Where  is  the  lowly,  long-suffering  creature  which  never  would 
wish  to  soar  upward,  which  would  resign  itself  of  its  own  accord, 
which  would  delight  in  its  own  degradation  ? I have  no  feeling 
for  such  a creature;  I should  consider  it  a monstrosity  which  had 
issued  prematurely  from  the  womb  of  nature  and  in  which  nature 
has  no  part. — There  are  moments  in  life — who  does  not  know 
them  ? — when  the  heart  overleaps  itself,  when  the  best,  the 
noblest  fellow,  in  spite  of  justice  and  law,  cannot  help  being 
carried  beyond  himself.” 

Biirger’s  whole  life  and  work  was  a continual  rebellion 
against  accepted  respectability  and  order.  In  his  ballads — 
Lenore  (1773),  Der  Wilde  Jdger  (1778),  Fes 
Biirger.  Pfarrers  Tochter  von  Taubenhain  (1781),^®  and 
others — he  displays  a marvellous  power  of  naturalistic  ef- 
fects. Irresistibly  he  forces  the  hearer  into  the  wild  dance 


Preface  to  Faust^s  Leben  ; DLD.  nr.  3,  p.  8. 

DNL.  LXXVin,  170  2"^  211.  Cf.  Er.  Schmidt,  Charakt.  199  ff 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION,  3II 

of  his  feverish  imagination.  He  revels  in  the  gruesome 
and  the  sensational.  He  makes  the  ghastly  as  ghastly  as 
possible,  he  makes  the  atrocities,  especially  those  committed 
by  noblemen  against  the  common  people,  as  atrocious  as 
possible.  In  his  lyric  poems  he  reveals  his  stormy,  unruly 
heart  without  reserve  or  restriction.  He  is  pursued  by  a 
passionate  love  for  his  wife’s  sister.  Far  from  suppressing 
his  desire,  he  speaks  of  it  as  a necessity,  as  a natural  right 
he  glories  in  it,  he  surrounds  it  with  all  the  halo  of  para- 
disiac innocence  and  beauty. And  when  at  last  his  poor, 
devoted  wife  dies,  and  he  is  allowed  to  make  Molly  also 
legally  his  own,  the  frenzied  man  breaks  out  into  a trium- 
phal song  of  praise  and  joy.^® 

Wilhelm  Heinse,  in  his  Ardinghello  (1787),  goes  so  far  as 
to  preach  unbridled  license  as  the  highest  law  of  nature. 
With  him  there  is  no  attempt  at  palliating  or 
apologizing  for  things.  Life  is  the  self-mani- 
festation  of  an  elemental  instinct.  Passion, 
lust,  crime,  are  necessary  forms  of  existence.  Or  rather, 
there  is  no  crime  in  the  ordinary  sense.  The  only  real 
crime  is  weakness;  the  true  virtue  is  power;  the  highest 
good  is  beauty,  the  manifestation  of  power.  Thus  Ar- 
dinghello rages  through  his  life  from  seduction  to  murder, 
from  murder  to  seduction,  ever  remorseless,  ever  master 
of  himself,  ever  teeming  with  vitality,  ever  revelling  in 
voluptuous  delights,  a Napoleon  of  sensuality.  He  him- 
self says  of  Hannibal 

Cf.  the  poem  An  die  Menschengesichter ; ib.  94: 

Ich  habe  was  Liebes,  das  hab  ich  zu  lieb ; 

Was  kann  ich,  was  kann  ich  dafiir? 
and  the  sonnet  Naturrecht;  ib.  120. 

Cf.  the  poem  Untreue  uber  Alles;  ib.  238. 

Das  hohe  Lied  von  der  Einzigen;  ib.  122.  It  is  not  surprising  that 
Schiller  should  have  had  a natural  aversion  to  Burger.  Cf.  his  essay 
Ueber  Burgers  Gedichte  (1791);  Sdnimtl.  Schr.  VI,  314  £f. 

Ardinghello  b,  V;  DNL,  CLXXXVI,  131. 


312  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


**  Among  all  heroic  expeditions  none  has  impressed  me  co  much 
as  that  of  Hannibal  through  Italy.  From  his  plunge  over  the 
wild,  swift  streaming  Rhone  below  Avignon,  and  the  bold  march 
through  the  rapid  torrents,  the  dark  gorges,  over  the  primeval 
snow  and  ice  of  Alpine  rocks, — in  every  one  of  his  battles  he 
appears  as  an  Olympian  athlete.  Everywhere  with  his  well- 
trained  little  troop  he  falls  upon  his  big  clumsy  antagonist,  strikes 
him  down,  and  beats  his  nose,  ears,  and  jaws  into  one  bleeding 
mass.  He  understood  the  art  of  victory,  as  no  one  else.  Before, 
in  the  midst  of,  and  after  the  battle  he  handled  armies  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  like  a single  man;  at  every  spot,  at  every 
moment,  full  of  caution,  alertness,  courage,  shrewdness,  and 
presence  of  mind.  What  a succession  of  exploits!  Like  an  un- 
tamable lion  bent  on  revenge,  he  tears  through  the  land, 
destroying  and  devouring  the  herds  of  cattle  and  the  bleeding 
sheep.  What  are  millions  of  men,  who  all  their  lives  have  had 
not  a single  hour  like  this,  compared  with  this  one  man  ? ” 

At  last  Ardinghello  founds  a communistic  state,  the  most 
characteristic  features  of  which  are  free  love,  woman  suf- 
frage, and  the  worship  of  the  elements.  In  a parable  which 
may  be  taken  as  a motto  of  the  whole  novel,  Heinse  ex- 
presses his  view  of  life  thus’®: 

**  A waxen  house-god,  left  out  of  sight,  stood  by  the  side  of 
a fire  in  which  beautiful  Campanian  vases  were  being  hardened, 
and  began  to  melt.  He  bitterly  complained  to  the  flames. 

‘ Look,’  he  said,  ‘ how  cruelly  you  treat  me.  To  those  vessels 
yonder  you  lend  durability,  and  me  you  destroy.’  The  fire 
answered:  ‘ Complain  rather  of  your  own  nature.  As  to  myself, 
I am  fire  everywhere.’  ” 

In  a word,  then,  all  German  literature  of  those  years 
Causes  wWcli  seems  to  be  aflame.  A new  order  of  things 
aermaifr^^^  seems  about  to  break  forth  from  the  brain  of 

lution  in  the  ^he  nation.  A political  and  social  revolution 
eignteentn  . . . , . , . 

century.  seems  imminent.  Why  did  this  revolution 

not  come  ? 


80  ENL.  CLXXXVI,  52. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


313 


A number  of  causes  co-operated  to  prevent  it.  In  the 
first  place,  the  revolution  was,  to  a certain  extent  at  least, 
forestalled  by  reform  measures,  emanating  from 
the  rulers  themselves.  Frederick  the  Great  was  nating  from 
by  no  means  the  only  German  Prince  of  the 
eighteenth  century  who  understood  the  signs  of  the  time. 
However  high  he  stands  above  the  emperor  Joseph  II. 
(1765-90)  in  political  discernment  and  in  statesmanlike 
appreciation  of  the  difference  between  the  desirable  and 
the  attainable, — the  youthful  enthusiasm,  the  reformatory 
zeal  of  the  latter  were  none  the  less  worthy  of  the  admira- 
tion bestowed  upon  them  by  the  best  men  of  his  time;  and  if 
he  had  accomplished  nothing  but  the  abolition  of  serfdom, 
this  alone  would  be  sufficient  to  secure  him  a place  among 
the  benefactors  of  humanity.  Nor  were  these  two  great 
princes  alone  in  their  lofty  view  of  the  tasks  and  duties  of 
rulers.  Karl  August  of  Sachsen- Weimar,  Karl  Friedrich  of 
Baden,  Max  Joseph  of  Baiern,  Karl  Wilhelm  Ferdinand  of 
Braunschweig  among  the  secular;  Friedrich  Franz  von 
Fiirstenberg  of  Munster,  Emmerich  Joseph  of  Mainz, 
Franz  Ludwig  von  Erthal  of  Wiirzburg-Bamberg  among 
the  ecclesiastical  princes,  were  shining  examples  of  en- 
lightened statesmanship.  They  were  men  who  considered 
themselves  servants  of  the  state,  if  not  of  the  people  ; and 
by  alleviating  feudal  burdens,  by  softening  class  distinctions 
and  enmities,  by  improving  the  judiciary,  by  fostering  in- 
stitutions of  learning,  by  patronizing  men  of  genius  and 
culture,^^  they  did  much  toward  reconciling  even  the  bois- 
terous spirits  of  the  ‘Sturm  und  Drang'  period  to  existing 


Cf.  L.  Hausser,  Deutsche  Geschichte  vom  Tode  Friedrichs  d.  Gr os- 
sen  bis  zur  Griindung  d.  deutschen  Bundes  I,  94  ff.  106  ff. — A typical 
representative  of  this  spirit  of  an  enlightened  and  sober  liberalism  is 
Georg  Forster  (1754-1794),  author  of  the  Ansichten  vo7n  Niederrhein 
(1791).  Selected  essays  of  Forster's  DLD.  nr.  46-47.  About  the 
tragic  fate  which  finally  drove  this  man  into  the  arms  of  the  Jacobins 
cf.  Biedermann  /.  c.  II,  3,/.  1197  ff. 


3 14  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

conditions.  The  days  of  an  Augustus  the  Strong  belonged 
irrevocably  to  the  past^^;  the  German  people  as  a rule 
were  right  when  they  looked  to  their  princes  for  reform 
and  progress. 

Secondly.  The  dismemberment  of  the  German  empire 
into  an  infinitude  of  little  independent  sovereignties,  hurtful 
Wholesome  as  it  was  politically,  was  at  the  same  time  not 
without  its  compensating  social  advantages, 
centralization.  The  proverb  ‘‘  Under  the  crozier  there  is  good 
living’'  (Unter  dem  Krummstab  ist  gut  wohnen)  was  true 
of  not  a few  among  the  ecclesiastical  estates,  and  the  same 
might  be  said  of  a good  many  of  the  secular  principalities, 
the  free  cities,  and  the  rural  communities.  No  one  reading 
in  Goethe’s  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  the  description  of 
Frankfurt  as  it  was  in  his  childhood,  can  help  being  im- 
pressed with  the  soundness  and  good  sense,  the  thoughtful- 
ness and  culture,  the  integrity  and  liberal-mindedness  of  the 
average  Frankfurt  citizen  of  that  time.  Nor  was  Goethe’s 
native  town  altogether  an  exception  in  this  respect.  What 
a happy,  patriarchal  life  did  the  old  Gleim  lead  in  his 
hospitable  retreat  at  Halberstadt  what  an  honoured  posi- 
tion did  Klopstock  occupy  in  Hamburg  society  ; what  a 
homely  charm  there  is  spread  over  Kant’s  life  at  Konigs- 
berg  ! And  when  have  domestic  joys,  rural  simplicity,  the 
holiday  pleasures  and  workaday  affairs  of  a contented,  com- 
fortable, and  respectable  people  been  more  pleasantly  and 
truthfully  portrayed  than  in  the  sketches  of  Westphalian 
yeomanry  homes  drawn  by  Justus  Moeser,  or  the  scenes 
from  Hannoverian  and  Holstein  country  life  by  Matthias 
Claudius  and  Johann  Heinrich  Voss,  of  Swabian  peasantry 
life  by  Peter  Hebei  ? Such  poems  as  Voss’s  Luise  or  The 

Even  a tyrant  like  Karl  Eugen  of  Wurtemberg,  notorious  for  his 
shameful  treatment  of  Schubart,  felt  the  need  of  at  least  posing  as  a 
benevolent  patriarch.  Cf.  J.  Minor,  Schiller  I,  85  ff. 

Cf.  Goethe's  characterization  of  Gleim,  Dichtg  u.  Wahrh,  b.  10  ; 
Werke  XXI,  171  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


315 


Seventieth  Birthday;  as  Claudius’s  Rhemwemlied  or  Abend- 
lied;  as  Hebei’s  Die  Wiese  or  Sonntagsfruhe^  are  classic 
examples  of  the  unspeakable  charm  which  the  faithful 
representation  of  an  existence  hedged  in  by  uncorrupted 
sentiment,  simple  decorum,  and  a chaste  popular  tradition 
cannot  fail  to  exert.  A single  one  of  Moeser’s  Patriotische 
Phantasieen  will  be  sufficient  to  mark  the  contrast  between 
these  descriptions  of  the  average  life  of  the  common  herd 
and  the  glaring  pictures  of  aristocratic  depravity  as  painted 
by  Klinger  or  Lenz.  It  is  a humorous  sketch  purporting 
to  be  a letter  of  a travelling  Gascon  to  a Westphalian 
schoolmaster,  and  runs  in  the  main  as  follows 

“ You  may  say  as  much  as  you  please  in  praise  of  your  father- 
land,  I cannot  help  telling  you  that,  although  I have  travelled  a 
good  deal  on  land  and  sea,  I have  never  seen  a country  where 
there  are  fewer  thoroughly  original  fools  than  in  yours.  I am, 
as  you  know,  a playwright  by  profession,  and  I visited  your 
country  to  find  some  material  for  comedies,  as  others  go  abroad 
in  quest  of  lions,  monkeys,  and  other  rare  animals.  But  to  tell 
the  truth,  I have  not  found  a single  fool  among  your  people  who 
was  worth  studying;  which  undoubtedly  shows  that  there  is  no 
genius  among  you. 

“ I will  not  dispute  you  the  title  of  good,  honest,  industrious 
people.  But  these  are  to  be  found  everywhere,  and  when  you 
have  seen  one,  you  have  seen  all.  What  I am  after  is  the  ex- 
ceptional. That  is  the  thing  which  pays  nowadays. 

“ At  first  I thought  this  deplorable  uniformity  of  your  coun- 
trymen might  be  confined  to  the  common  people.  I hoped  aftei 
all  among  the  nobility,  or  at  least  among  the  ladies,  to  find 
something  which  I could  use  for  my  collection  of  rarities.  But 


Hebei,  whose  Allemannische  Gedichte  appeared  in  1803,  cannot  of 
course  in  any  sense  be  called  a contemporary  of  the  Storm-and-Stress 
writers.  However,  since  his  poetry  is  closely  related  to  that  of  Voss 
and  was  directly  influenced  by  it,  his  name  does  not  seem  out  of  place 
here. 

Patriot.  Phant.  ed.  R.  Zdllner  p.  82  ff.  Cf.,  also.  Die gute  selige 
Frau,  ib.  16  ff.  Der  alte  Rath,  ib.  68  f.  Schreiben  des  Herrn  von  H., 
edition  of  1778,  I,  266  ff. 


3i6  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


here  also  I was  disappointed.  I met  a nobleman  of  high  rank, 
who  treated  his  bondmen  as  rational  beings;  who  felt  their 
wants,  advised  them,  helped  tb.em  in  case  of  need,  and  took 
a paternal  interest  in  all  their  household  affairs.  The  lady  of  the 
house  left  me  in  the  midst  of  an  interesting  tale  of  mine,  in  order 
to  talk  with  a poor  woman.  And — what  I thought  almost  original 
' — mademoiselle  started  for  the  cellar  to  give  out  the  wine,  while 
I was  making  a sketch  of  the  latest  thing  in  fashions  for  her. 
When,  after  dinner,  we  went  into  the  garden,  I noticed  that  there 
was  not  even  an  orangery.  Would  you  believe  it,  no  orangery! 
The  master  of  the  house  told  me  that  in  the  times  of  his  grand- 
father no  nobleman’s  estate  had  been  without  one;  but  that  now 
they  thought  more  of  an  oak  tree  than  of  a laurel.  Oh,  what 
commonplace  people! 

‘‘Well,  I thought,  in  the  country  things  are  hopeless;  but 
perhaps  in  the  cities  there  is  more  to  be  had.  But  no,  here  too, 
with  the  exception  of  a few  abortive  copies,  the  originals  of 
which  I had  seen  infinitely  superior  elsewhere,  nothing  but 
healthy,  contented,  industrious  people;  not  a single  figure  worthy 
to  be  sketched  or  to  be  exhibited  in  a salon.  A lady  to  whom  I 
expressed  my  astonishment  about  this  promised  to  show  me 
something  which  I would  hardly  see  in  other  countries.  And 
where  did  she  take  me  ? To  the  nursery,  where  her  husband 
was  endeavouring  to  teach  their  children  the  fundamentals  of 
Christianity;  a task  in  which,  after  the  first  few  civilities,  he 
quietly  proceeded  during  my  presence!  The  lady  sat  down  by 
the  side  of  her  daughter,  and  pressed  her  hand  when  she 
answered  her  father  correctly,  and  the  girl  was  more  charmed 
with  this  approbation  than  with  me,  although  I flatter  myself 
not  to  be  an  altogether  ordinary  person.  I suppose  these  people 
even  go  to  church  with  the  common  rabble,  and  have  never 
dreamed  of  the  fact  that  the  ten  commandments  have  been  out  of 
fashion  for  more  than  a hundred  years. 

“ In  a country  like  this,  in  a country  where,  I suppose,  hus- 
band and  wife  still  sleep  in  one  bed,  it  is  no  wonder  that  from 
mere  ennui  a great  many  children  are  begotten;  I am  only  sur- 
prised that  there  are  not  a million  to  the  square  mile.  But  the 
only  things  of  interest  which  I have  found  there,  and  of  which 
I shall  take  specimens  with  me  to  put  them  on  exhibition  in 
Paris,  are  raw  ham  and  Pumpernickel.” 

Of  the  circumstances  which  prevented  the  ‘ Sturm  und 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


317 


Drang  ’ movement  from  plunging  Germany  into  a political 
revolution,  we  have  thus  far  mentioned  two.  (i)  The 
social-reform  policy  entered  upon  by  the  most  enlightened 
of  the  German  governments — tending,  as  it  did,  toward  the 
limitation  of  feudal  privileges,  the  softening  down  of  class 
distinctions,  the  public  recognition  of  the  rights  of  man — 
was,  in  part  at  least,  a fulfilment  of  the  very  demands  raised 
by  the  leaders  of  the  movement.  (2)  The  political  decen- 
tralization of  Germany — preventing,  as  it  did,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  growth  of  a strong  public  opinion,  and  ensuring, 
on  the  other,  a considerable  amount  of  local  independence, 
private  comfort  and  happiness — served  to  make  the  middle 
classes  (the  well-to-do  peasant,  the  burgher,  the  scholar, 
the  professional  man,  the  official)  slow  even  to  desire  a 
radical  change  of  existing  conditions. 

This  leads  us  to  a third  and  final  consideration.  The 
‘ Sturm  und  Drang  ’ agitation,  although  teeming  with  social 
catchwords  and  political  phrases,  was  at  bottom 
an  essentially  intellectual  movement.  Its  true  tiallyintel- 

aim — and  here  we  see  its  close  connection  with 

...  . racterofthe 

the  whole  development  of  German  civilization  gtorm-and- 

since  the  Thirty  Years’  War — was  not  so  much  a Stress  move- 
- , . . ment. 

reconstruction  of  outward  conditions,  a reorgani- 
zation of  public  life,  as  it  was  the  expression  of  the  inner 
self,  the  deepening  of  individual  experience,  the  rounding 
out  of  individual  character.  The  ideal  of  human  perfec- 
tion which  inspired  this  movement  was  not  man  as  a social 
being,  dependent  upon  and  determined  by  the  force  of  sur- 
rounding conditions,  but  man  as  such,  man  lifted  above  the 
barriers  of  his  political,  social,  moral  environment,  man  in 
the  full  autonomy  of  his  own  free,  spiritual  nature.  And 
it  is  fair  to  assume  that  it  was  this  lofty  individualistic 
view  of  life  more  than  anything  else  which  deprived  the 
‘ Sturm  und  Drang  ’ movement  of  a large  popular  following  ; 
which  restricted  its  revolutionary  influence  largely  to  the 
sphere  of  thought  and  aesthetic  culture. 


3i8  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  great  German  revolution 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  fought  out,  not  on  the  politi- 
The  German  battlefield,  but  in  the  realm  of  letters ; that 

revolution  of  its  leaders  were,  not  a Mirabeau,  a Danton,  a 
the  eighteenth  Napoleon,  but  men  like  Herder,  Kant,  Goethe, 
intellectual  Schiller  ; that  its  victories  were  won,  not  in  par- 
revolution.  liamentary  debates  or  in  street  conflicts,  but  on 
the  stage  and  in  the  study;  that  it  resulted,  not  in  a violent 
uprooting  of  the  old,  hereditary  aristocracy,  but  in  the 
peaceful  triumph  of  the  new,  intellectual  aristocracy,  which 
during  the  hundred  years  just  preceding,  recruiting  itself 
largely  from  the  middle  classes,  had  gradually  united  in  itself 
the  best  minds  of  the  whole  nation. 

II.  The  Classics  of  Individualism. 

Having  now  reached  the  classic  period  of  modern  Ger- 
man literature,  we  shall  not  enter  into  a study  of  the  lives 
of  the  great  men  who  represent  it,  nor  shall  we  undertake  a 
detailed  analysis  of  their  works.  What  we  shall  attempt  is 
to  understand  their  place  in  the  history  of  German  civiliza- 
tion; to  grasp  their  relation  to  the  time  in  which  they  lived; 
to  interpret  their  message  to  coming  generations. 

To  put  it  briefly,  the  German  classic  thinkers  and  poets, 
while  leading  the  intellectual  movement  of  the  eighteenth 
century  to  its  culmination,  while  saying  the  last  word  and 
embodying  the  highest  ideal  of  individualism,  ushered  in  at 
the  same  time  the  strongest  intellectual  movement  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  by  anticipating,  at  least  in  theory,  the 
new  collectivistic  ideal. 

Let  us  elucidate  this  statement  by  a rapid  review  of  what 
the  work  of  Herder  and  Kant,  of  Goethe  and  Schiller 
means  to  us. 

I.  Herder. 

None  of  these  men  was  more  distinctly  the  spokesman  of 
his  own  age  and  the  prophet  of  a coming  era  than  Johann 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION,  3 IQ 

Gottfried  Herder  (1744-1803).  Like  the  rest  of  the  ‘ Sturm 
und  Drang  ’ enthusiasts,  he  began  as  a follower  Herder  the 
of  Rousseau,  as  a sworn  defender  of  individu-  spokesman  of 
ality,  of  nature,  of  freedom.  And  throughout  tht^rop^^^^ 
his  life  he  remained  faithful  to  these  ideals  of  collectivism, 
his  youth.  But  from  the  very  beginning  there  was  an 
essential  difference  between  him  and  Rousseau.  To  Rous- 
seau, mankind  appeared  dissected,  as  it  were,  into  an  in- 
finitude of  free  and  equal  individuals  ; the  development, 
the  culture,  the  happiness  of  these  individuals  was  the  all- 
absorbing  topic  of  his  interest  and  passionate  endeavour. 
Herder,  although  equally  enthusiastic  in  exalting  the  dignity 
and  moral  autonomy  of  the  individual  human  soul,  con- 
ceived of  it  from  the  very  first  as  an  integral  part  of  a larger 
organism:  the  soul  of  the  people.  Like  Winckelmann  and 
Lessing,  only  much  more  comprehensively  than  the  former 
and  much  more  emphatically  than  the  latter.  Herder  based 
his  view  of  the  development  of  mankind  upon  the  funda- 
mental idea  of  national  individualities.  And  in  the  per- 
fection of  the  national  type  he  saw  the  way  toward  the 
perfection  both  of  the  individual  man  and  of  humanity  at 
large. 

It  is  this  intuitive  grasp  of  the  organic  unity  of  all  man- 
kind, of  the  inevitable  interdependence  of  the  individual, 
the  nation,  and  the  race,  which  has  made  Herder  the  father 
of  the  modern  evolutionary  view  of  history. 

All  the  great  achievements  of  human  civilization — lan- 
guage, religion,  law,  custom,  poetry,  art — he  considered  as 
the  natural  products  of  collective  human  life,  as  The  idea  of 
the  necessary  outgrowth  of  national  instincts  organic 
and  conditions.  Man  does  not  invent  these 
things,  he  does  not  consciously  set  out  to  coin  words,  to 
establish  a certain  set  of  religious  conceptions,  or  to  work 
out  certain  problems  of  artistic  composition.  At  least  this 
is  not  the  way  in  which  the  vital  forms  of  a language,  the 
great  religious  symbols,  or  the  ideal  types  of  art  and  poetry 


320  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


are  created.  They  are  not  created  at  all;  they  are  not  the 
work  of  individual  endeavour;  they  are  the  result  of  accumu- 
lated impressions  exercised  upon  masses  of  human  beings 
living  under  similar  conditions  and  similarly  organized.  In 
other  words,  they  are  engendered  and  conceived  in  the 
nation  as  a whole  ; the  individual  poets,  artists,  prophets, 
through  whom  they  are  given  their  audible  or  visible  shape, 
are  only,  as  it  were,  the  most  receptive  and  at  the  same 
time  the  most  productive  organs  of  the  national  body. 
They  are  the  channels  through  which  a national  language, 
a national  poetry,  a national  religion  come  to  light. 

Twenty  years  before  Herder’s  first  writings,  Montesquieu 
in  his  Esprit  des  Lois  (1748)  had  made  the  analysis  of  po- 
Literature  the  litical  institutions  a means  of  gauging  national 
national°^°^  character.  Herder  applied  this  same  method  to 
character.  the  Study  of  language,  religion,  and,  above  all, 
of  literature.  He  taught  us,”  as  Goethe  says,^®  ‘‘  to  con- 
ceive of  poetry  as  the  common  gift  of  all  mankind,  not  as 
the  private  property  of  a few  refined,  cultivated  individu- 
als.” He  taught  us  to  see,  in  a rude  Esquimaux  funeral 
song  no  less  than  in  a Hebrew  psalm  or  in  a Spanish  ballad 
dealing  with  romantic  love  adventure,  national  spirit  crys- 
tallized in  verse.  He  for  the  first  time  clearly  and  sys- 
tematically considered  all  literature  as  the  expression  of 
living  national  forces,  as  the  reflex  of  the  whole  of  the 
national  civilization. 

Herder  was  not  more  than  twenty-three  years  old  when, 
in  the  Fragmente  ilber  die  neuere  deutsche  Liter atur  (1767), 
Lawsoflite-  gave  utterance  to  this  epoch-making 

rary develop-  idea.  ‘‘There  is  the  same  law  of  change” — 
ment.  thus  he  begins  the  second  Fragment  — “in  all 

mankind  and  in  every  individual  nation  and  tribe.  From 

Die htg  u.  Wahrh,  b.  10/  PVerbe  XXI,  179. 

Von  den  Lebensaltern  einer  Sprache;  Sdnimtl.  Werke  ed.  B.  Suphan 
I,  151  ff.  Cf.  R.  Haym,  Herder  I,  137  ff.  Hillebrand,  German 
Thotight p.  ii7ff. — The  latest  biographer  of  Herder  is  E.  Kiihnemann. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


321 


the  bad  to  the  good,  from  the  good  to  the  better  and  best, 
from  the  best  to  the  less  good,  from  the  less  good  to  the 
bad — this  is  the  circle  of  all  things.  So  it  is  with  art  and 
science;  they  grow,  blossom,  ripen,  and  decay.  So  it  is  with 
language  also.’'  A primitive  people,  like  a child,  stares  at 
all  things;  fright,  fear,  admiration  are  the  only  emotions  of 
which  it  is  capable,  and  the  language  of  these  emotions 
consists  of  high-pitched,  inarticulate  sounds  and  violent 
gestures.  This  is  the  first,  prehistoric,  infantile  period  in 
the  history  of  a language.  There  follows  the  period  of 
youth.  With  the  increasing  knowledge  of  things,  fright  and 
wonder  are  softened.  Man  comes  to  be  more  familiar  with 
his  surroundings,  his  life  becomes  more  civilized.  But  as 
yet  he  is  in  close  contact  with  nature;  affections,  emotions, 
sensuous  impressions  have  more  influence  upon  his  conduct 
than  principles  and  thought.  This  is  the  age  of  poetry. 
The  language  now  is  a melodious  echo  of  the  outer  world; 
it  is  full  of  images  and  metaphors,  it  is  free  and  natural  in 
its  construction.  The  whole  life  of  the  people  is  poetry. 

Battles  and  victories,  fables  and  moral  reflections,  laws  and 
mythology  are  now  contained  in  song.”  The  third  period 
is  the  age  of  manhood.  The  social  fabric  grows  more  com- 
plicated, the  laws  of  conduct  become  more  artificial,  the 
intellect  obtains  the  ascendency  over  the  emotions.  Litera- 
ture also  takes  part  in  this  change.  The  language  becomes 
more  abstract;  it  strives  for  regularity,  for  order;  it  gains  in 
intellectual  strength  and  loses  in  sensuous  fervour;  in  other 
words,  poetry  is  replaced  by  prose.  And  prose,  in  its  turn, 
after  it  has  fulfilled  the  measure  of  its  maturity,  sinks  into 
senile  correctness  and  sterility,  thus  rounding  out  the  life 
of  a given  national  literature,  and  making  room  for  a new 
development. 

Here  we  have  the  key  to  Herder’s  whole  life-work.  Again 
and  again,  in  one  way  or  another,  he  comes  primitive 
back  to  this  conception  of  literature  as  a civilization, 
manifestation  of  national  culture.  During  his  voyage,  in 


322  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA7NRE, 


1769,  from  Riga  to  Nantes,  he  comes  to  understand 
the  Homeric  epics  as  the  poetic  outgrowth  of  a seafaring 
people. 

“ It  was  seafarers,*’  he  writes  in  his  diary “ who  brought  the 
Greeks  their  earliest  religion.  All  Greece  was  a colony  on  the 
sea.  Consequently  their  mythology  was  not,  like  that  of  the 
Egyptians  and  Arabs,  a religion  of  the  desert,  but  a religion  of 
the  sea  and  the  forest.  Orpheus,  Homer,  Pindar,  to  be  fully 
understood,  ought  to  be  read  at  sea.  With  what  an  absorption 
one  listens  to  or  tells  stories  on  shipboard!  How  easily  a sailor 
inclines  to  the  fabulous!  Himself  an  adventurer,  in  quest  of 
strange  worlds,  how  ready  is  he  to  imagine  wondrous  things! 
Have  I not  experienced  this  myself  ? With  what  a sense  of 
wonder  I went  on  board  ship!  Did  I not  see  everything  stranger, 
larger,  more  astounding  and  fearful  than  it  was  ? With  what 
curiosity  and  excitement  one  approaches  the  land!  How  one 
stares  at  the  pilot  with  his  wooden  shoes  and  his  large  white  hat! 
How  one  sees  in  him  the  whole  French  nation  down  to  their 
king,  Louis  the  Great!  Is  it  strange  that  out  of  such  a state  of 
strained  expectation  and  wonder  tales  like  that  of  the  Argonauts 
and  poems  like  the  Odyssey  should  have  sprung  ? ** 

In  common  with  the  young  Goethe  and  Justus  Moeser, 
Herder  in  1773  published  the  ‘ Fliegende  Blatter*  Von 
deutscher  Art  und  Kunst.  Here  he  applies  the 
Popular  song.  principle  to  the  study  of  old  Scotch  and 

English  poetry,  and  of  popular  song  in  general.  He  tells 
how  on  his  cruise  in  the  Baltic  and  North  Seas  he  for  the  first 
time  fully  appreciated  Ossian:  Suddenly  borne  away  from 

the  petty  stir  and  strife  of  civilized  life,  from  the  study-chair 
of  the  scholar  and  the  soft  cushions  of  the  salons;  far  removed 
from  social  distractions,  from  libraries,  from  newspapers; 
floating  on  the  wide  open  ocean;  suspended  between  the 
sky  and  the  bottomless  deep;  daily  surrounded  by  the  same 
infinite  elements,  only  now  and  then  a new  distant  coast,  a 
strange  cloud,  a far-off  dreamland  appearing  before  our 


28  Werke  IV,  357  ff. 

29  Briefwechsel  iiber  Ossian  u,  d.  Lieder  alter  Volker;  Werke  V,  168  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


323 


vision;  passing  by  the  cliffs  and  islands  and  sand-banks 
where  formerly  skalds  and  Vikings  wielded  their  harps  or 
swords,  where  Fingal’s  deeds  were  done,  where  Ossian’s 
melancholy  strains  resounded — believe  me,  there  I could 
read  the  ancient  skalds  and  bards  to  better  purpose  than  in 
the  professor’s  lecture-room.”  He  considers  popular  song 
as  a reflex  of  primitive  life;  in  its  wild,  irregular  rhytlim 
he  feels  the  heart-beat  of  a youthful,  impulsive  people;  its 
simple  directness  he  contrasts  with  the -false  rhetoric  of 
modern  book  lyrics.^®  The  wilder,  that  is,  the  fuller  of  life 
and  freedom  a people  is,  the  wilder,  that  is,  the  fuller  of  life, 
freedom,  and  sensuous  power  must  be  its  songs.  The  fur- 
ther removed  a people  is  from  artificial  thought  and  scien- 
tific language,  the  less  its  songs  are  made  for  print  and  paper, 
the  richer  are  they  in  lyric  charm  and  wealth  of  imagery- 
A savage  either  is  silent,  or  he  speaks  with  an  unpremedi- 
tated firmness  and  beauty  which  a civilized  European  can- 
not equal;  every  word  of  his  is  clearly  cut,  concrete,  living, 
and  seems  to  exhaust  what  it  is  meant  to  express;  his  mind 
and  his  tongue  are,  as  it  were,  tuned  to  the  same  pitch. 
Even  in  the  apparent  abruptness  and  incoherency  of  popu- 
lar song  Herder  sees  an  element  of  beauty  rather  than  a 
defect,  inasmuch  as  it  results  from  the  natural  attitude  of 
the  unperverted  mind  toward  the  outer  world.” 

“ All  the  songs  of  primitive  peoples  turn  on  actual  things, 
doings,  events,  circumstances,  incidents,  on  a living,  manifold 
world.  All  this  the  eye  has  seen,  and  since  the  imagination 
reproduces  it  as  it  has  been  seen,  it  must  needs  be  reproduced 
in  an  abrupt,  fragmentary  manner.  There  is  no  other  connec- 
tion between  the  different  parts  of  these  songs  than  there  is 
between  the  trees  and  bushes  of  the  forest,  the  rocks  and  caverns 
of  the  desert,  and  between  the  different  scenes  of  the  events 
themselves.  When  the  Greenlander  tells  of  a seal-hunt,  he  does 
not  so  much  relate  as  paint  with  words  and  gestures  single  facts 
and  isolated  incidents:  they  are  all  parts  of  the  picture  in  his  soul. 


Werke  V,  1 64. 


31  Ib,  181. 


32  Ib,  196  f. 


324  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

When  he  laments  the  death  of  a beloved  one,  he  does  not  deliver 
a eulogy  or  preach  a funeral  sermon,  he  paints^  and  the  very  life 
of  the  departed,  summoned  up  in  a succession  of  striking  situa- 
tions, is  made  to  speak  and  to  mourn.” 

And  not  only  the  Greenlander,  not  only  a rude  and  primi- 
tive people,  feel  and  sing  in  this  manner.  All  the  great 
poets  of  the  world  do  the  same;  Homer,  Sopho- 
»oliakspere.  David,  Luther,  Shakspere — they  all  reflect 

the  life  which  surrounds  them,  they  give  us,  as  it  were,  in- 
stantaneous pictures  of  humanity  as  they  saw  it;  and  thus 
they  become  for  us  an  epitome  of  their  time  and  their  na- 
tion. Herein,  above  all,  lies  the  incalculable  importance  of 
Shakspere  for  us  of  to-day.^®  For  Shakspere  more  fully 
than  any  other  poet  has  expressed  the  secret  of  our  own 
life.  He  reflects  the  character  of  the  Germanic  race  in  its 
totality.  He  seems  to  have  heard  with  a thousand  ears 
and  to  have  seen  with  a thousand  eyes;  his  mind  seems  to 
have  been  a storehouse  of  countless  living  impressions. 
King  and  fool,  beggar  and  prince,  madman  and  philosopher, 
angels  and  devils  in  human  form;  the  endless  variety  of  in- 
dividuals and  class- types;  the  sturdy  endeavour,  the  reckless 
daring  of  a people,  hardened  in  the  battle  with  wild  ele- 
ments, passionate  but  faithful,  lusty  and  sensual  but  at  the 
same  time  longing  for  a deeper  truth  and  a purer  happiness; 
— all  this  we  see  in  his  dramas  in  bold  and  striking  out- 
line, and  in  it  all  we  recognise  our  own  self  heightened  and 
intensified. 

A few  words  may  suffice  to  indicate  how  this  same  train 
of  thought  runs  through  nearly  all  of  Herder’s  later  writ- 
ings. In  the  essay  Von  Aehnlichkeit  der  mittle- 
d^lizatimi,  englischen  und  deutscken  Dichtkunst  (1777) 

he  held  out  the  prospect  of  a history  of  civiliza- 
tion based  upon  the  various  national  literatures,  thus  clearly 


Cf.  the  essay  Shakespear;  ib.  219. 
2*  Werke  IX,  532  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


325 


formulating  the  problem  which  literary  history  has  been 
trying  to  solve  ever  since.  In  the  Volkslieder  of  1778  and 
1779^^  he  laid  the  foundation  for  a comparative  study  of 
literature  by  collecting  and  translating  with  wonderful 
insight  and  faithfulness  popular  songs  and  ballads  from 
all  over  the  globe;  a collection  which  in  1803  he  supple- 
mented by  the  most  finished  and  artistically  perfect  of  his 
poetical  works,  a reproduction  of  the  old  Spanish  romances 
of  the  Cid^^  In  the  book  Vo?n  Geist  der  jbrdischen  Foesie 
(1782-83)  he  considered  the  poetry  of  the  Bible  from  the 
same  point  of  view.  In  the  Idee7i  zur  Philosophie  der  Ge- 
schichte  der  Menschheit  (1784-91)  he  represented  the  whole 
history  of  mankind  as  a succession  of  national  organisms ; each 
revolving  around  its  own  axis;  each  living  out  its  own  spirit; 
each  creating  individual  forms  of  language,  religion,  society, 
literature,  art;  and  each  by  this  very  individualization  of 
national  types  helping  to  enrich  and  develop  the  human 
type  as  a whole. 

To  repeat:  In  Herder’s  mind  there  were  united  the  pre- 
vailing tendencies  of  two  centuries.  With  the  eighteenth 
century  he  believed  in  freedom,  humanity,  indi- 
viduality. From  national  arrogance  and  preju- 
dice  he  was  as  far  removed  as  Lessing.  ‘^\mong 
all  the  forms  of  pride,”  he  says  in  the  Brief e zur  Beforderung 
der  Humanitdt  I consider  national  pride  the 

greatest  folly.  Let  us  contribute  as  much  as  we  can  to  the 
honour  of  our  nation;  let  us  defend  it,  if  it  is  wronged.  To 
praise  it  ex  professo  seems  to  me  an  inane  self-glorification.” 
The  advancement  of  mankind  through  self-perfection  of  the 
individual  was  to  him,  as  it  was  to  his  contemporaries,  the 


36  Werke  XXV,  127  f. 

86  Werke  XXVIII,  399  ff. 

8^  Werke  XI,  213  ff.  XII,  I ff. 
38  Werke  XIII.  XIV. 

8»  IV,  42/  Werke  XVII,  211. 


326  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


highest  concern  of  life,  and  nobody  has  spoken  more  nobly 
or  eloquently  of  it  than  he.“® 

“ Whatever  belongs  to  the  nature  of  our  race,  every  possible 
means  of  its  improvement  and  progress,  this  is  the  object  which 
a humane  man  has  in  mind,  this  is  the  centre  of  his  work.  Since 
our  race  must  work  out  its  own  destiny,  none  of  its  members  has 
a right  to  be  idle  in  this  work.  Every  one  must  take  part  in  the 
weal  and  woe  of  the  whole,  every  one  must  willingly  sacrifice 
his  share  of  reason,  his  mite  of  activity,  to  the  genius  of  the 
race.  No  one,  however,  can  contribute  to  the  welfare  of  man- 
kind who  does  not  make  himself  what  he  can  and  ought  to  be 
made.  Every  one,  therefore,  must  cultivate  the  seed  of  human- 
ity, most  of  all,  on  the  bed  where  he  himself  is  planted.  We 
all  carry  in  us  an  ideal  of  what  we  ought  to  be  and  are  not. 
The  dross  which  we  ought  to  cast  away,  the  perfection  which 
we  ought  to  attain,  we  all  know.  And  since  we  can  become  what 
we  ought  to  be  only  through  ourselves  and  others  from  whom 
we  receive  or  whom  we  affect,  our  own  humanity  necessarily 
becomes  at  one  with  the  humanity  of  others.” 

In  all  this  we  hear  the  son  of  the  age  of  enlightenment, 
the  apostle  of  toleration  and  cosmopolitanism.  But  we 
also  see  the  point  where  Herder  lifts  himself  above  the 
level  of  his  own  age,  where  he  reaches  out  into  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Enthusiastic  individualist  that  he  was,  he 
was  at  the  same  time  the  first  great  modern  collectivist. 
Every  individual  was  to  him  a public  character,  an  heir  of 
all  the  ages,  an  epitome  of  a whole  nation.  He  first  among 
modern  thinkers  considered  man  in  the  fulness  of  his  in- 
stincts, in  the  endless  variety  of  his  relations  to  the  larger 
organisms  of  which  he  is  a part.  He  first  attempted  on  a 
large  scale  to  represent  all  history  as  an  unbroken  chain  of 
cause  and  effect,  or  rather  as  a grand  living  whole  in  whose 
development  no  atom  is  lost,  no  force  is  wasted.  As  he 
himself  says  in  that  wonderful  apotheosis  of  humanity,  the 
fifteenth  book  of  the  Ideen^^: 


Briefe  z.  Bef.  d.  Htimaniiat  III,  32;  /.  c,  153. 
XV,  4.  5;  Werke  Hem  pel  XI,  193  £f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


327 


“ If  no  sunbeam  that  ever  fell  upon  our  earth  has  been  lost,  no 
withered  leaf  fallen  from  a tree,  no  corpse  of  a decaying  animal, 
no  seed  blown  away  by  the  wind,  how  much  less  could  an  action 
of  a conscious  being  have  remained  without  effect  ? Every  one 
of  the  living  generations  has  progressed  within  the  limits  which 
other  generations  put  to  it;  and  the  industry  of  man  as  well  as 
the  madness  of  his  ravages  has  become  an  instrument  of  life  in 
the  hands  of  time.  Upon  the  ruins  of  destroyed  cities  there 
arise  verdant  fields,  cultivated  by  a new,  hopeful  people.  Divine 
Omnipotence  itself  cannot  ordain  that  effect  should  not  be  effect; 
it  cannot  change  the  earth  to  what  it  was  a thousand  years  ago. 
Let  any  one  of  our  day  try  to  sing  an  Iliad,  to  write  like  .^schy- 
lus,  Sophocles,  or  Plato;  it  is  impossible.  The  simple  childlike 
frame  of  mind,  the  naive  way  of  looking  at  the  world  which  the 
Greeks  possessed,  are  irrevocably  things  of  the  past.  We,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  and  know  a great  many  things  of  which  neither 
Greeks,  nor  Jews,  nor  Romans  knew.  One  century  has  taught 
the  other;  tradition  has  become  fuller;  history,  the  muse  of  time, 
speaks  now  with  a hundred  voices,  blows  on  a hundred  flutes. 
And  even  the  confusion  which  has  resulted  from  this  enormous 
increase  of  knowledge  is  a necessary  part  of  human  progress. 
All  beings  have  their  centre  in  themselves,  and  each  stands  in  a 
well-proportioned  relation  to  all  the  rest;  they  all  depend  on  the 
equilibrium  of  antagonistic  forces,  held  together  by  one  central 
organizing  power.  With  this  certainty  for  a guide,  I wander 
through  the  labyrinth  of  history  and  see  everywhere  harmo- 
nious, divine  order.  For  whatever  can  happen,  happens;  what- 
ever can  work,  does  work.  Reason  only  and  justice  abide; 
madness  and  folly  destroy  themselves.  It  is  a beautiful  thing  to 
dream  of  a future  life,  to  imagine  one’s  self  in  friendly  intercourse 
with  all  the  wise  and  good  men  who  ever  worked  for  humanity 
and  entered  the  higher  land  with  the  sweet  reward  of  accom- 
plished labour.  But,  in  a certain  sense,  history  also  opens  to  us 
these  delightful  bowers  of  friendship  and  discourse  with  the 
upright  and  thoughtful  of  all  times.  Here  Plato  stands  before 
me;  there  I hear  Socrates’s  kindly  questionings,  and  share  in  his 
last  fate.  When  Marcus  Antoninus  in  his  chamber  communes 
with  his  heart,  he  also  speaks  to  mine;  and  poor  Epictetus  gives 
commands  more  powerful  than  those  of  a king.  The  ill-starred 
Tullius,  the  unfortunate  Boethius  speak  to  me,  confiding  to  me 
the  circumstances  of  their  lives,  the  anguish  and  the  comfort  of 
their  souls.  Thus  history  leads  us,  as  it  were,  into  the  council 


328  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


of  fate,  teaches  us  the  eternal  laws  of  human  nature,  and  assigns 
to  us  our  own  place  in  that  great  organism  in  which  reason  and 
goodness  have  to  struggle,  to  be  sure,  with  chaotic  forces,  but 
always,  according  to  their  very  nature,  must  create  order  and 
go  forward  on  the  path  of  victory.” 

2.  Kant. 

While  Herder  conceived  of  all  history  as  a conscious  or 
unconscious  striving  after  a harmonious  blending  of  indi- 
Reconciliation  vidual  and  collective  forces,  Immanuel  Kant 
of  empiricism  (1724-1804)  discovered  this  same  ideal  as  a 
in  the  Kantian  regulative  law  of  the  intellectual  and  moral 
philosophy.  nature  of  man.  In  Kant  there  converged  the 
strongest  philosophical  tendencies  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  in  the  same  manner  in  which  the 
strongest  religious  tendencies  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries  converged  in  Luther.  Luther,  by  combining  in 
himself  the  Mystic  and  the  Humanistic  movement,  revolu- 
tionized the  mediaeval  church.  Kant,  by  combining  in 
himself  both  the  empiricism  and  the  idealism  of  his  prede- 
cessors, revolutionized  modern  thought. 

Developing,  correcting,  and  systematizing  the  ideas  of 
English  empiricism,  he  demonstrated  in  the  Kritik  der 
reinen  Vernunft  (1781)'^®  the  subjective  character  of  all 
The  empirical  human  knowledge.  Human  knowledge  consists 

character  of  two  fundamental  elements:  matter  and  form, 
human  know- 
ledge, The  matter  is  furnished  to  us  by  experience. 

Without  sense  impressions,  without  a tangible,  visible  world 
our  mind  would  be  without  any  contents;  science  would 
be  without  an  objective  basis.  There  are  no  demonstrable 
truths  except  those  which  can  be  verified  by  empirical  ex- 
perience. Questions  which  are  beyond  the  reach  of  empiri- 
cal experience,  such  as  : Is  there  a God  ? Is  there  freedom 

Sdmmtl,  Werke  in  chronol,  Reihenf.  ed.  Hartenstein  III. — For 
Herder’s  ill-tempered  attacks  against  the  Kantian  system,  which,  how- 
ever, in  no  way  disprove  the  essential  harmony  of  the  two  men  with 
regard  to  the  ultimate  ideals  of  life,  cf.  Haym,  Herder  II,  651  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


329 


of  the  human  will  ? Is  there  immortality  of  the  human 
soul?  do  not  belong  before  the  tribunal  of  the  intellect; 
from  a theoretical  point  of  view  they  are  unanswerable. 
By  its  very  nature,  the  human  intellect  is  debarred  from 
the  infinite;  its  only  legitimate  study  is  the  world  as  we  see 
it  about  us. 

But  how  do  we  see  this  world  ? In  Kant's  phraseology, 
What  is  the  form  of  human  knowledge  ? When  we  say: 
‘ The  stone  is  square,  the  tree  is  tall,'  we  seem 
to  attribute  squareness  to  the  stone,  height  subjective 
to  the  tree  as  inherent  space  qualities.  In 
reality  we  describe  the  result  of  a certain  process  going  on 
in  our  own  nervous  organism.  When  we  say:  ‘ The  violet 
blossoms  earlier  than  the  aster,'  we  seem  to  attribute  the 
early  blossoming  to  the  violet,  the  late  blossoming  to  the 
aster  as  inherent  time  qualities.  In  reality  we  describe  a 
certain  state  of  our  own  self-consciousness.  When  we  say: 
‘An  explosion  is  produced  through  the  tension  of  gases,' 
we  seem  to  state  an  inherent  relation  of  cause  and  effect 
between  the  two  events.  In  reality  we  describe  our  own 
method  of  registering  and  classifying  events.  In  other 
words,  the  three  fundamental  forms  of  all  human  knowl- 
edge, the  conceptions  of  space,  time,  and  causation,  are  not 
determinations  or  relations  of  things  j they  are  subjective 
functions  of  our  own  intellect  through  which  we  see  things. 
We  see  things  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear  to  us. 

Intellectually,  then,  the  prevailing  tendency  of  our  life  is 

an  extreme  individualism.  Only  the  raw  material  of  our 

cognition  is  found  in  the  outer  world;  it  is  the 

mind  which  endows  this  raw  material  with  a 

...  mdmaualism. 
form.  The  object  of  our  experience  is  a chaotic 

mass  of  sensations;  our  intellect  through  organizing  activity 
transforms  these  sensations  into  knowledge.  All  nature  as 
we  know  it  is  a product  of  the  human  mind.  Each  indi- 
vidual observer,  inasmuch  as  he  compels  the  objects  to 
submit  to  the  functions  of  his  mind,  i*s  a law-giver,  a creator. 


330  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


If  in  the  Kritik  der  reinen  Vernunft  we  see  Kant,  start- 
ing from  the  premises  of  empiricism,  gradually  rise  into  the 
region  of  the  ideal,  we  find  him  in  the  Kritik  der  praktischen 
Vernunft  from  the  outset  in  the  ideal  sphere.  It  is 

here  that  he  brings  to  a climax  the  ethical  ideas  of  Leibniz 
and  Spinoza;  it  is  here  that  he  formulates  the  religion  of 
modern  mankind. 

Our  intellect  is  confined  to  the  realm  of  the  senses  as  the 

object  of  its  activity;  our  will  reaches  out  into  the  infinite. 

We  could  not  hope,  love,  strive,  struggle,  in 

short,  we  could  not  live,  without  the  conviction  collec- 
. . . tivism. 

that  this  fleeting  world  of  appearances  is  the 

manifestation  of  an  eternal,  spiritual  world.  To  the  intel- 
lect the  ideas  of  God,  of  moral  freedom,  of  immortality,  are 
undemonstrable  assumptions  ; to  the  will  they  are  necessary 
conditions  of  our  life.  If  we  cannot  say:  It  is  sure  that 
they  are  real,  we  certainly  can  and  must  say:  We  are  sure 
that  they  are  real.  In  our  own  personality,  in  our  spiritual 
organization,  in  the  dictates  of  our  conscience,  we  find  a 
direct  and  absolute  proof  that  there  exists  a moral  order  of 
things  of  which  we  ourselves  are  an  integral  part.  The 
moral  law  is  the  most  complete  expression  of  man’s  highest 
dignity.  It  resides  within  each  individual,  it  is  felt  by  him 
instinctively  as  his  innermost  essence  ; but  at  the  same 
time  it  lifts  him  above  his  own  self  and  connects  him  with 
all  mankind.'*^ 

“ Has  not  every  man,  even  if  he  possess  only  a moderate  degree 
of  honesty,  sometimes  found  that  he  eschewed  a harmless  lie  by 
which  he  might  have  drawn  himself  out  of  a troublesome  affair 
or  perhaps  even  have  helped  a beloved  and  worthy  friend,  solely 
because  he  did  not  want  to  lower  himself  in  his  own  eyes  ? Is 
not  an  honest  man,  entangled  in  a misfortune  which  he  might 
have  avoided  if  he  had  only  set  aside  his  duty,  is  he  not  upheld 
by  the  consciousness  that  he  preserved  and  glorified  in  his  own 
person  the  dignity  of  mankind  and  that  he  has  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself  or  to  fear  the  test  of  self-examination  ? ” 


SdmmtL  Werke  V,  1-169. 


Kritik  d.  prakt.  Vern.j  I,  c.  92. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


331 


In  obedience,  then,  to  the  moral  law,  in  submission  to  the 
voice  of  duty  which  speaks  to  every  one  of  us  from  within 
his  own  self,  there  lies  the  true  freedom  of  man.  The  moral 
This  is  the  central  point  around  which  revolves  law. 
our  whole  existence.  Everything  else  in  this  world  of  ap- 
pearances is  subject  to  doubt  and  misrepresentation;  the 
dictates  of  duty  alone  are  a direct  and  unmistakable  revela- 
tion of  the  divine.  They  alone  are  exempt  from  all  sensual 
admixture,  they  alone  are  rooted  solely  in  man’s  spiritual 
being,  they  alone  justify  our  belief  in  an  eternal  goodness 
and  justice. 

Thus,  while  Kant  demolished,  on  the  one  hand,  whatever 
was  left  of  a religious  system  which  saw  in  God  an  extra- 
mundane  and  extra-human  sovereign,  he  firmly 
established,  on  the  other,  a belief  which  recon-  The  modern 
structs  the  divine  from  the  inner  consciousness 
of  man.  We  feel  ourselves  moral  beings.  This  is  the 
fundamental  fact  of  all  ethics  and  of  all  religion.  This 
feeling  assures  us  that  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  any- 
thing in  this  world  or  without  which  could  without  restric- 
tion be  called  good,  except  a good  will ; and  this  not  on  ac- 
count of  what  it  produces  or  effects,  but  solely  on  account 
of  its  intrinsic  goodness.’'  This  feeling  gives  us  an  unfail- 
ing guide  of  conduct  in  the  maxim  “ Act  in  such  a man- 
ner that  the  motive  of  thy  will  at  any  time  might  be  made 
the  principle  of  a universal  legislation.”  This  feeling  teaches 
us  that  the  aim  of  life  is  not  individual  happiness,  but  work 
in  the  service  of  humanity. 

Here  again,  as  before  in  Herder,  we  see  the  point  where 
the  individualism  of  the  eighteenth  century,  developed  to 
its  highest  form,  passes  over  into  nineteenth- 
century  collectivism.  Personality  was  the 
watchword  of  the  Kantian  philosophy  no  less  ' 
than  of  Herder’s  conception  of  history.  But  to  both  Kant 

Grundlegung  zur  Mdaphysik  der  Sitten;  Werke  IV,  241. 

Kritik  d,  prakt.  Vern.;  1.  c.  32. 


332  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  Herder  personality  meant  something  quite  different 
from  what  it  meant  to  their  intellectual  predecessors,  Rous- 
seau and  the  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang  ’ enthusiasts.  Rousseau 
and  his  followers  saw  in  mankind  an  aggregate  of  free  and 
equal  individuals;  Herder  saw  in  it  an  organic  whole,  made 
up  of  a great  variety  of  widely  differing  national  types; 
Kant  saw  in  it  a community  of  moral  beings,  held  together 
by  the  stern  law  of  duty.  The  practical  outcome  of  Rous- 
seau’s teachings  was  the  anarchy  of  the  French  Revolution. 
The  practical  outcome  of  the  teachings  of  Kant  and  of 
Herder  was  the  regeneration  of  the  Prussian  state  by  men 
like  Fichte,  Humboldt,  Stein,  Scharnhorst — men  who,  on 
the  one  hand,  represented  the  most  refined  individuality, 
who  embodied  the  highest  intellectual  culture  of  their  time, 
and  who  on  the  other,  recognised  the  inexorable  rule  of 
the  moral  law,  and  who  felt  deeply  the  obligations  laid  upon 
each  individual  by  the  traditions  of  common  national  life. 

One  of  these  men  has  expressed  in  so  characteristic  a 
manner  the  idea  of  personality  which  was  at  the  bottom  of 
German  thought  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
^iiinbold^°^  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
that  his  words  may  stand  as  a motto  for  this 
whole  epoch.  In  his  essay  On  the  Proper  Limits  of  State 
Activity in  1792,^’  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt  under- 
takes to  show  that  the  whole  aim  of  public  life  is  to  give  the 
individual  the  fullest  opportunity  for  unhampered  develop- 
ment. The  definition,  however,  which  Humboldt  gives  of 
what  seems  to  him  the  ideal  individual  is  a striking  proof  of 
the  height  to  which  individualism  had  now  risen,  how  far  it 
had  been  removed  from  private  selfishness  and  isolation, 
how  replete  with  noblest  humanity  it  had  come  to  be. 

“ The  idea  of  moral  and  intellectual  perfection,”  he  says,^®  ” is 
large  and  full  and  inspiring  enough  not  to  need  any  longer  the 

Published  in  full  only  after  the  author’s  death,  in  his  Gesammelte 
Werke  VII,  i £f. 

L.  c.  64  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


333 


help  of  religious  symbols.  Even  to  him  who  has  not  accustomed 
himself  to  personify  the  sum  total  of  all  moral  goodness  in  a divine 
ideal,  this  idea  of  perfection  must  be  an  ever-present  incentive  to 
activity,  an  unfailing  source  of  happiness.  Firmly  convinced  by 
experience  that  his  mind  is  capable  of  progress  in  higher  moral 
strength,  he  cannot  help  working  toward  this  goal.  The  pros- 
pective annihilation  of  his  earthly  existence  does  not  frighten 
him;  his  unavoidable  dependence  on  external  circumstances  does 
not  oppress  him.  His  mind,  conscious  of  its  inner  strength,  feels 
itself  raised  above  the  changes  of  this  world  of  appearances.  If 
he,  then,  reviews  his  past;  if  he  examines  his  course  step  by 
step,  how  by  degrees  he  came  to  be  what  he  now  is;  if  he  thus 
finds  cause  and  effect,  aim  and  means  united  in  himself,  so  that, 
full  of  the  noblest  human  pride,  he  may  exclaim^®: 

Hast  du  nicht  Alles  selbst  vollendet 

Heilig  gliihend  Herz  ? — 

how  is  it  possible  that  he  should  feel  the  loneliness  and  helpless- 
ness which  are  usually  associated  with  the  lack  of  a belief  in  a 
personal,  extra-mundane  cause  of  the  chain  of  finite  beings  ? Nor 
does  this  consciousness  of  self,  this  being  in  and  through  him- 
self, make  him  harsh  and  insusceptible  toward  other  beings,  or 
shut  out  love  and  benevolence  from  his  heart.  The  very  idea 
of  perfection  which  animates  his  whole  activity  projects  his 
own  existence  into  the  existence  of  others.  He  is  not  com- 
pletely imbued  with  the  highest  ideal  of  morality  so  long  as  he 
considers  himself  or  others  as  isolated  beings,  so  long  9.S  he 
has  not  attained  the  conception  of  a perfection  to  which  all 
spiritual  beings  contribute  as  constituent  parts.  Perhaps  his 
relation  to  his  fellow-beings  is  all  the  more  intimate,  his  sympathy 
with  their  fate  all  the  more  hearty,  the  more  deeply  he  is  con- 
vinced that  their  fate,  as  well  as  his,  depends  altogether  on  indi- 
vidual effort.’* 

These,  then,  to  sum  up  briefly,  were  the  main  features  of 
the  intellectual  life  underlying  the  classic  German  literature 
of  the  days  of  Weimar  and  Jena.  In  the  first 

place,  an  absolute  freedom  from  traditional  au- 

. . . Humanism 

thority.  Probably  never  in  the  history  of  man- 
kind has  there  been  a period  when  men  looked  at  things 


Cf.  Goethe’s  Frojnetheus;  Werke  I,  162. 


334  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


from  as  broad  a point  of  view  and  with  so  little  bias.  Hu- 
manity in  the  largest  sense  was  the  chosen  study  of  the  age. 
Everywhere — in  language,  in  literature,  in  political  institu- 
tions, in  religion — men  tried  to  detect  the  human  element 
and  brought  it  to  light  with  all  the  fearlessness  of  scientific 
ardour.  With  this  boldness  of  research  there  was  allied, 
secondly,  a supreme  interest  in  the  inner  life.  Man  was 
considered  bound  up,  to  be  sure,  with  the  world  of  the 
senses,  and  confined  to  it  as  the  scene  of  his  activity, 
yet  essentially  a spiritual  being,  determining  the  material 
world  rather  than  determined  by  it,  responsible  for  his  ac- 
tions to  the  unerring  tribunal  of  his  own  moral  conscious- 
ness. In  the  sea  of  criticism  and  doubt  which  had  swept 
away  traditional  conceptions  and  beliefs  this  inner  con- 
sciousness appeared  as  the  one  firm  rock.  Here,  so  it 
seemed,  were  the  true  foundations  for  a new  religious  belief, 
a belief  which  maintains  that  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to 
serve  God  otherwise  than  by  fulfilling  one’s  duties  to  men, 
and  which  considers  the  divine  rather  as  the  final  goal  than 
as  the  pre-existing  cause  of  life.  And  lastly,  there  was  a 
joyous  optimism  in  the  men  of  this  age  which  could  not 
help  raising  them  into  a higher  sphere.  They  believed  in 
the  future.  They  believed  in  eternity.  They  believed  that 
humanity  was  slowly  advancing  toward  perfection,  that  a 
time  must  come  when  the  thoughts  of  the  few  wise  men,  the 
dreams  of  the  few  poets  and  prophets  would  become  trans- 
fused into  the  life-blood  of  the  masses,  when  the  good 
would  be  done  because  it  is  the  good,  when  instinct  and 
duty  would  be  reconciled;  and  they  derived  their  highest 
inspirations  from  the  feeling  that  they  themselves  were 
workers  in  the  service  of  this  cause.'^®^ 

It  will  now  be  our  task  to  see  how  these  intellectual  and 
moral  ideals  were  reflected  in  the  work  of  the  two  greatest 
poets  of  the  age. 


For  the  preceding  pages  cf.  Paulsen,  EinL  i,  d,  Philos,  p.  306  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


335 


3.  Goethe  and  Schiller. 

Goethe  and  Schiller  stand  to  each  other  in  a relation  both 
of  contrast  and  harmony,  similar  to  that  which  we  found  to 
exist  between  Herder  and  Kant 

Goethe’s  chosen  field  of  study  was  nature  and  the  human 
affections,  Schiller’s  was  history  and  human  aspirations. 
Goethe’s  prevailing  attitude  was  one  of  sympa- 
thetic  contemplation,  Schiller’s  was  one  of  ener-  their  views 
getic  activity.  Goethe,  like  Herder,  looked  at 
life  as  an  organic  whole  of  natural  causes  and  effects.  To 
live  one’s  self  out  to  the  full  extent  of  one’s  faculties,  to 
promote  in  others  the  unhampered  growth  of  individuality, 
to  recognise  the  unity  and  reasonableness  of  the  whole 
order  of  phenomena — this  seemed  to  him  the  first  and  most 
necessary  task  of  civilized  man.  Schiller,  like  Kant,  looked 
at  life  as  a continuous  struggle  for  perfection.  The  victory  of 
mind  over  matter,  of  the  inner  law  over  outer  conditions, 
of  the  human  will  over  the  inevitableness  of  fate — this 
seemed  to  him  the  great  problem  of  existence.  Goethe 
strove  for  sesthetic  universality,  Schiller  strove  for  moral 
freedom. 

But  in  spite  of  these  far-reaching  differences  of  temper 
and  genius,  the  mission  performed  by  Goethe  and  Schiller 
for  modern  humanity  was  essentially  the  same.  On  the 
basis  of  the  most  complete  intellectual  freedom,  unham- 
pered by  any  bias  of  whatever  kind,  religious,  social,  or 
even  national,  they  reared  a structure  of  poetic  symbols 
embodying  the  fundamental  demands  of  all  religion  and 
bringing  out  the  common  ideals  oi  all  society  and  of  every 
race. 

The  typical  man:  man  placed  in  the  conflict  between  the 
sensual  and  the  spiritual,  but  impelled  by  his 
inner  nature  to  overcome  this  conflict ; man  inevi-  their  ultimate 
tably  erring  and  sinning,  but  nevertheless  master 
of  his  own  destiny;  man  naturally  bent  on  rounding  out  his 


33^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


own  individuality,  but  through  this  very  instinct  forced  into 
organic  relation  with  the  social  and  national  body;  in  short, 
man  rising  to  the  stature  of  his  true  self,  striving  for  a har- 
monious blending  of  all  his  powers — this  was  the  ideal  which 
inspired  both  Goethe's  and  Schiller’s  poetic  work,  as  it  in- 
deed inspired  all  the  highest  artistic  productions  of  the 
time,  Mozart’s  £>on  Juan  no  less  that  Beethoven’s  Fidelia 
or  Thorwaldsen’s  Triumph  of  Alexander. 

Neither  Goethe  nor  Schiller  attained  to  this  lofty  height 
before  they  reached  the  years  of  ripened  manhood.  Both 
began  in  the  tumultuous  fashion  of  the  ‘ Sturm 
the^Storm^^^  Drang  ’ enthusiasts.  Their  early  works,  al- 

Stress  move-  though  fully  revealing  the  extraordinary  genius 
ment.  both,  were  not  so  much  creations  of  pure  art  as 

outcries  of  souls  overflowing  with  compassionate  zeal  for 
struggling  and  suffering  humanity. 

If  one  remembers  what  a degree  of  classic  perfection, 
what  a noble  harmony  of  substance  and  form  German  litera- 
Superiority  of  reached  in  Lessing’s  master-works,  one 

Lessing’s  cannot  help  feeling  that  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s 
youthful  effusions  marked  a decided  lowering  of 
youthful  works  aesthetic  as  well  as  moral  standards.  Goethe’s  Gotz 
offloethec  Berlichingen  (1773),  with  its  crude  imita- 

tion of  Shakspere,  its  looseness  of  dramatic  structure,  and 
its  lack  of  true  dramatic  motive,  forms  indeed  a striking 
contrast  to  the  refined,  compact,  well-rounded  proportions 
of  Emilia  Galotti.  The  languid  sentimentalism  of  Werther 
(1774),  the  weakly  self-indulgence  of  Stella  (1775),  become 
all  the  more  manifest  if  compared  with  the  healthy  manli- 
ness of  characters  like  Tellheim  or  Appiani. 

Even  the  greatest  of  Goethe’s  creations,  Faust,  in  its  first 

conception,  was  of  far  less  universal  significance 
Lessing’s  Faust  , , i 1 t • » 

and  fioethe’s  seems  to  have  been  Lessing  s conception 

earliest  Faust  of  the  same  theme.  No  greater  loss  has  ever 

conception.  befallen  German  literature  than  the  mysterious 

disappearance  of  Lessing’s  Faust.  From  what  we  know 


THE  AGE  OE  THE  REVOLUTION, 


337 


indirectly  about  this  work/®  it  is  clear  that  Lessing  had 
transformed  the  sixteenth-century  magician  into  a cham- 
pion of  eighteenth-century  enlightenment.  Faust  was  rep- 
resented as  an  ideal  youth,  living  only  for  the  pursuit  of 
wisdom,  superior  to  all  human  passion  except  the  passion 
for  truth.  The  attempt  to  ruin  this  ‘ favourite  of  God,’  to 
ruin  him  through  the  nobility  of  his  own  nature,  through 
his  burning  thirst  for  knowledge,  through  his  insatiable 
yearning  for  the  divine,  this  was  the  part  to  be  played  in 
Lessing’s  drama  by  Satan  and  his  associates.  But  from  the 
very  beginning  the  hearers  were  not  to  be  left  in  doubt  as 
to  the  final  issue  of  this  contest.  For  when,  in  the  first 
scene,  the  Satanic  spirits  set  out  for  their  task  of  seduction, 
there  is  heard  a voice  from  above:  Ye  shall  not  conquer!  ” 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  of  a similar  harmonious  issue  of 
Goethe’s  Faust  in  its  original  form.®*  Here  Faust  appears, 
not  as  a champion  of  human  reason,  but  as  an  apostle  of 
human  passion,  as  a despiser  of  tradition  and  order,  as  a 
reckless  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang  ’ individualist,  whose  lawless 
career,  it  seems,  can  only  be  expiated  by  death  itself. 
Or  is  it  possible  to  imagine  any  form  of  expiation  except 
death  by  which  Faust  could  atone  for  the  foulest  of  crimes, 
the  wilful  corruption  of  a pure,  innocent  girl  ? Is  it  not 
intolerable  to  think  that  after  Gretchen’s  ruin  Faust  should 
live  on,  regretful  perhaps  of  the  past,  but  without  any  suffer- 
ing commensurate  with  the  agony  which  he  inflicted  on  her 
who  loved  him  ? And  if  this  is  true,  if  a tragic  death  is 
the  only  outcome  consistent  with  the  rebellious  career  of 
Goethe’s  Faust  as  originally  conceived,  how  limited,  how 
fragmentary  does  this  conception  appear  compared  with  the 
grand  outline  and  the  wide  perspective  of  Lessing’s  Faust 
idea  I 

Cf,  Lessing^s  Werke  Hempel  XI,  2,  p,  579  ff.  Erich  Schmidt, 
Lessing  I,  369  ff. 

Cf.  Goethe's  Faust  in  ursprungl.  Gestalt  ed.  Erich  Schmidt.  W. 
Scherer,  Aus  Goethes  Fruhzeit;  Qiicllen  u.  Forsch.  XXXIV,  77  ff. 


33^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Even  further  removed  from  Lessing’s  artistic  refinement 
and  intellectual  serenity  were  the  beginnings  of  Schiller, 

^ , - His  first  dramas,  Die  Rduher  (1781),  Fiesco 

Crudeness  of  7.7/  ' 1 • 

Scliiller’s  (1783),  Kabale  und  Liebe  (1784),  besides  ha^- 
early  dramas,  faults  of  the  violent  and  over- 

strained ‘ Storm-and-Stress  ’ language,  are  in  substance 
pathological  rather  than  tragic.  That  an  affectionate 
father  acting  solely  upon  the  insinuations  of  an  infa- 
mous slanderer  should  tear  his  most  beloved  son  from  his 
bosom  and  abandon  him  to  abject  misery;  that  this  son 
instead  of  making  a direct  appeal  to  his  father,  instead  of 
disentangling  the  whole  web  of  lies  and  forgery  by  a simple 
statement  of  the  truth,  should  fly  off  into  the  forest,  gather 
a band  of  robbers  about  him,  and  declare  war  upon  human 
society;  that  this  whole  train  of  horror  and  crime  should 
have  its  origin  in  the  cold  villainy  of  another  son  whose 
dominant  passion  is  evil  for  evil’s  sake — this  is  what  we 
are  forced  to  accept  in  TLe  Robbers.  Still  more  dis- 
torted and  unnatural  are  the  plot  and  characters  of  Kabale 
tind  Liebe.  This  scheming  courtier,  who,  in  order  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  with  his  princely  master,  would  drive  his  own 
son  into  a marriage  with  the  prince’s  mistress,  thereby 
wrecking  his  hopes  for  a union  with  a pure,  innocent  burgher 
maiden;  this  ecstatic  youth,  who,  although  fully  aware  of 
his  father’s  intrigues  as  well  as  the  unwavering  faithfulness 
of  his  beloved,  is  through  a most  shallow  stratagem  made 
to  doubt  her,  and  thus  to  plunge  both  her  and  himself 
into  death;  this  guileless  burgher  maiden  who  talks  to 
the  prince’s  mistress  as  though  she  herself  had  fathomed 
all  the  misery  of  a sinful  life;  this  sentimental  mistress 
who  would  fain  arouse  our  sympathy  by  intimating  that 
she  has  given  away  her  honour,  but  not  her  heart  — how 
painful,  not  to  say  atrocious,^^  all  this  is  ! Even  where,  as 


Cf.  Kabale  u.  Liebe  II,  i ; Sctmmtl.  Schr.  Ill,  390. 

**  To  what  extent  Kabale  u.  Liebe  reflects  actual  conditions  and 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


339 


in  Fiescoy  the  characters  are  less  abnormal  and  out  of  pro- 
portion, there  is  such  a lack  of  simplicity  and  such  a large 
admixture  of  the  accidental  and  artificial  in  the  plot  that 
the  whole  fails  to  produce  a compact  and  harmonious  im- 
pression. How  inorganic,  for  instance,  and  out  of  accord 
with  the  central  action  is  such  a scene  as  the  death  of  Leo- 
nore,  Fiesco’s  wife.  Fiesco  has  made  use  of  the  republican 
conspiracy  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Dorias  to  reach  out 
himself  after  the  ducal  crown  of  Genoa.  He  is  now  on  the 
point  of  striking  the  final  blow.  The  city  is  in  revolt. 
Fiesco  at  the  head  of  the  conspirators  is  marching  against 
the  Doria  palace.  The  fall  of  the  reigning  family  seems 
imminent.  The  revolutionary  leader  is  just  about  to  throw 
off  the  republican  mask  and  proclaim  himself  dictator. 
At  this  moment  he  is  overtaken, — not  by  the  inevitable  con- 
sequence of  his  own  guilt,  but  by  a mere  outward  mishap. 
He  kills  by  mistake  his  own  wife.  Leonore,”  he  exclaims,^* 
the  hour  has  come  : thy  Fiesco  is  duke  of  Genoa  ; — and  the 
most  abject  beggar  in  Genoa  would  hesitate  to  exchange 
his  misery  with  my  woe  and  my  purple.  A wife  shares 
his  misery  ; — and  with  whom  can  I share  my  splendour  ? 
Here,  Lessing  would  have  said,  we  hear  not  the  solemn 
voice  of  tragedy,  but  the  hollow  clamour  of  the  melodrama. 
The  true  poet  reveals  to  us  the  unerring  law  of  human 
doing  and  suffering;  Schiller  here  confronts  us  with  the 
capricious  lawlessness  of  chance. 

All  these  defects  of  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  early  works 

are  obvious  and  beyond  dispute.  And  yet  when  Extraordi- 

we  remind  ourselves  of  the  torrents  of  violent  effect  of 
• Till  1 Groetlie’s  and 

emotion  let  loose  by  the  appearance  above  all  gciiiHer’s 

of  Werther^  Gotz,  and  T/ie  Robbers  ; when  we  re-  yontliful 

member  that  so  cold  and  feelingless  an  observer 

of  men  as  Napoleon  carried  a copy  of  Werther  with  him 

characters  of  eighteenth-century  society,  is  well  shown  by  J.  Minor, 
Schiller  II,  127  ff. 

Fiesco  W,  13;  Sd?n??ill.  Sc  hr.  Ill,  153. 


340  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

during  the  Egyptian  campaign  ; when  we  think  of  Mme. 
de  StaeTs  laughing  remark  that  this  book  was  responsible 
for  more  suicides  than  the  most  beautiful  woman  had  ever 
been  when  we  recall  what  a German  piince  once  said 
to  Goethe,^’  that,  if  he  had  been  God  on  the  point  of  cre- 
ating the  world,  and  had  foreseen  that  Schiller  would  write 
The  Robbers  in  it,  he  would  not  have  created  it, — we  may 
realize  how  far  these  works  excelled  those  of  Lessing  in 
their  immediate  effect  upon  the  imagination  and  morals  of 
the  time. 

Here,  at  last,  the  revolutionary  spirit  of  the  age  had 
found  a body  suited  to  itself.  Just  because  there  was 

nothing  in  these  works  of  the  moderation  and 

Their  elemen-  self-restraint  which  characterizes  even  the  bold- 
tal  poweii 

est  of  Lessing’s  works,  they  were  hailed,  espe- 
cially by  the  young,  as  messengers  of  a radically  new  order 
of  things;  their  very  eccentricities  and  abnormities  were 
accepted  as  unmistakable  tokens  that  the  days  even  of 
enlightened  absolutism  were  drawing  to  a close.  These 
works  seemed  to  restore  to  their  rightful  place  the  elemen- 
tal powers  and  instincts  of  human  nature  ; they  seemed  to 
demand  peremptorily  and  with  the  assurance  of  immediate 
success  what  to  Lessing  was  only  a far-off  ideal  : the  eman- 
cipation of  the  masses;  they  seemed  to  hurl  against  the 
rulers  of  Europe  the  words  of  defiance  which  Goethe’s  Pro- 
metheus addresses  to  the  ruler  of  Olympus 

Ich  dich  ehren  ? Wofiir  ? 

Hast  du  die  Schmerzen  gelindeit 
Je  des  Beladenen  ? 

Hast  du  die  Thranen  gestillet 
Je  des  Ge^ngsteten  ? 

Hat  nicht  mich  zum  Manne  geschmiedet 
Die  allmachtige  Zeit  ? 

Cf.  J.  W.  Appell,  Werther  u.  s,  Zeit*^  p,  43  f. 

Cf.  Hettner  I,  c.  Ill,  1,  p.  165. 

Eckermann,  Gesprdche  mit  Goethe  I,  206. 

Werke  Hempel  I,  162. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


341 


Und  das  ewige  Schicksal, 
Meine  Herren  und  deine  ? 


Hier  sitz’  ich,  forme  Menschen 
Nach  meinem  Bilde, 

Ein  Geschlecht,  das  mir  gleich  sei, 
Zu  leiden,  zu  weinen, 

Zu  geniessen  und  zu  freuen  sich, 
Und  dein  nicht  zu  achten, 

Wie  ich! 


the  physiog- 
nomy of 
G-oethe’s  and 
Schiller’s 
early  works, 


It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  even  these  early  works  of 
the  two  men  reveal  the  essential  contrasts  in  Difference  in 
their  mental  physiognomy,  and  how  they  at  the 
same  time  point  to  the  common  ideal  of  human- 
ity which  after  all  inspired  the  work  of  both. 

Goethe's  characters  are  receptive  rather  than 

initiative,  emotional  rather  than  reasoning,  deep  rather  than 

strong,  gentle  rather  than  heroic,  types  of  inner  Goethe’s 

life  rather  than  of  outer  activity.  Even  the  man-  characters 

^ . . types  of  inner 

best  of  them  all,  Gotz  von  Berlichingen,  does  life, 

not  so  much  determine  circumstances  as  he  is  determined 
by  them;  he  becomes  a rebel  not  because  he  wants  to  revo- 
lutionize the  present,  but  because  he  wants  to  uphold  the  past  ; 
he  is  ruined  not  so  much  through  what  he  does  as  through 
what  he  is:  a trusting,  faithful,  upright  man,  standing  alone 
in  a world  of  meanness,  treachery,  and  rascality.  He  is  the 
victim  of  a time  in  which,  to  use  the  words  which  Goethe 
himself  prefixed  to  his  drama,*^®  ‘‘  the  heart  of  the  people 
has  been  trampled  into  the  mud,  and  is  no  longer  capable 
of  a noble  sentiment."  The  same  thing,  only  much  more 
emphatically,  is  true  of  Werther.  He,  too,  is  a victim  of 
his  conditions.  He  harbours  within  him  a world  of  feeling 
and  thought;  he  would  embrace  the  universe  with  loving 
arms;  he  understands  the  language  of  the  brook  and  the 


I.e.,  to  the  first  version  of  1771-72,  which  was  published  only  in 
the  posthumous  works.  The  quotation  is  from  Haller’s  didactic  novel 
Usong. 


342  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


trees  no  less  than  that  of  the  human  heart;  he  sympathizes 
with  all  that  lives  and  breathes,  with  the  worm  in  the  grass 
no  less  than  with  the  spirit  of  Homer  and  Ossian;  he  is 
artist,  philosopher,  poet,  philanthropist : — everything  except 
a man!  The  conflicts  of  life  grate  upon  him;  the  conven- 
tions of  society  distress  him;  he  feels,  or  imagines  him- 
self, surrounded  by  miserable  class  prejudice  and  philistin- 
ism, and  he  has  not  the  strength  of  mind  or  the  firmness  of 
will  needed  to  make  him  a reformer.  No  wonder  that 
when  he  feels  the  hopelessness  of  his  love  for  Lotte,  life 
ceases  to  be  worth  living. 

A veil  has  been  removed  from  my  soul/*  he  writes,®®  ‘‘and  the 
scene  of  infinite  life  changes  before  me  into  the  abyss  of  an  eternally 
open  grave.  Can  you  say:  ‘ this  is  ! *,  since  everything  passes  away, 
since  everything  with  the  swiftness  of  a thunder-storm  rolls  past,  so 
rarely  living  out  the  whole  strength  of  its  existence,  so  continually 
swept  into  the  current,  tossed  about,  and  crashed  against  the  rocks  ? 
There  is  not  a moment  which  does  not  consume  thee  and  thine  about 
thee,  not  a moment  when  thou  art  not,  must  not  be,  a destroyer. 
The  most  harmless  pleasure-walk  costs  the  life  of  a thousand  poor 
worms,  a step  of  thy  foot  annihilates  the  laborious  structures  of  the 
ants  and  stamps  a little  world  into  an  ignominious  grave.  Ah  ! not 
the  colossal  and  rare  calamities  of  the  world,  these  floods  which  wash 
away  your  villages,  these  earthquakes  which  devour  your  cities,  move 
me;  my  heart  is  undermined  by  the  consuming  power  which  lies 
hidden  in  the  universe  of  nature,  which  has  produced  nothing  that 
did  not  destroy  its  neighbours  and  itself.  And  so  I reel  in  anguish. 
Heaven  and  earth  and  their  restless  forces  about  me:  I see  nothing 
but  an  ever-devouring,  ever-annihilating  monster.*’ 

What  is  it,  finally,  that  makes  Faust’s  character  ? Surely 
not  that  which  distinguishes  Marlowe’s  Dr.  Faustus  or 
even,  though  in  a lesser  degree,  the  hero  of  the  German 
puppet-play.  Marlowe’s  Faustus  craves  extraordinary 
power;  he  broods  over  colossal  plans;  like  a true  English- 
man he  wants  to  rule  men  and  to  master  the  elements.”^ 


Letter  of  Aug.  i8;  Werke  XIV,  59  f. 
Marlowe’s  Faustus  ed.  Breymann  v.  343  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


343 


Had  I as  many  soules  as  there  be  starres, 

Ide  giue  them  al  for  Mephastophilis  : 

By  him  He  be  great  Emprour  of  the  world, 

And  make  a bridge  through  the  moouing  ayre. 

To  passe  the  Ocean  with  a band  of  men. 

He  joyne  the  hils  that  binde  the  Affricke  shore. 

And  make  that  land  continent  to  Spaine, 

And  both  contributory  to  my  crowne: 

The  Emprour  shal  not  Hue  but  by  my  leaue. 

Nor  any  Potentate  of  Germany. 

Goethe’s  Faust,  as  a true  German  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, is  a dreamer  and  an  idealist.  What  he  craves  is  not 
power,  but  a sight  of  the  divine.  He  is  sick  of  words,  he 
longs  for  an  intuition  of  the  truly  real,  he  longs  to  under- 
stand the  inner  working  of  nature,  to  fathom  the  law  of  life, 
he  is  drunk  with  the  mysteries  of  the  universe.  But  alas! 
this  soaring  idealist  is  after  all  but  of  the  earth  earthy. 
By  the  side  of  the  spiritual  longing  which  lifts  him  above 
himse^^ 

into  the  high  ancestral  spaces 
there  dwells  within  him  the  sensual  instinct  which 
with  tenacious  organs  holds  in  love 
And  clinging  lust  the  world  in  its  embraces. 

And  in  the  conflict  between  these  “ two  souls  within  his 
breast”  Faust  spends  the  best  of  his  vitality. 

What  a contrast  to  this  feminine  fulness  and  ripe  in- 
wardness of  Goethe’s  characters  are  the  rugged,  aggrcs" 
sive  figures  of  Schiller’s  muse,  eager  for  public  Schiller’s 
life  and  for  public  deeds!  “Fie!  fie  upon  this  types 
weak  effeminate  age,'  exclaims  the  robber  activity. 
Moor,®*  “ fit  only  to  ponder  over  the  deeds  of  former  times, 
and  to  torture  the  heroes  of  antiquity  with  commentaries, 
or  mangle  them  in  tragedies.  Am  I to  squeeze  my  body 
into  stays,  and  straitlace  my  will  in  the  trammels  of  law  ? 
What  might  have  risen  to  an  eagle’s  flight  has  been  reduced 


Die  Rduber  I,  2;  Sdmmil.  Schr,  II,  29  f.  The  trsl.  is  Bohn’s. 


344  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

to  a snail’s  pace,  by  law.  Nevei  yet  has  law  formed  a great 
man;  ’tis  liberty  that  breeds  giants  and  heroes.  Oh  that 
the  spirit  of  Hermann  still  glowed  in  his  ashes!  Set  me  at 
the  head  of  an  army  of  fellows  like  myself,  and  out  of  Ger- 
many shall  spring  a republic  compared  with  which  Rome 
and  Sparta  will  be  but  nunneries.”  Fiesco^  ‘‘a  republican 
tragedy,’'  as  Schiller  significantly  calls  it,  deals  from  be- 
ginning to  end  with  the  great  affairs  of  state;  and  if  the 
hero  olf  the  play,  seduced  by  selfish  ambition,  deserts  the 
common  cause,  his  very  selfishness  is  so  colossal  and  awe- 
inspiring that  we  seem  to  see  in  it,  not  the  emotion  of  a 
single  individual,  but  the  bursting  into  existence  of  a 
mighty  collective  will.  It  is  as  though  we  heard  History 
herself  in  that  monologue  of  his  in  which  he  decides  to  be- 
come a traitor  to  liberty.®^ 

“ Is  the  armour  which  encases  the  pigmy's  feeble  frame  suited  to 
the  giant? — This  majestic  city  mine  ! — To  flame  above  it  like  the  god 
of  day  ! To  rule  over  it  with  a monarch  mind  ! To  hold  in  subjec- 
tion all  the  raging  passions,  all  the  insatiable  desires  in  this  fathom- 
less ocean  ! To  obey  or  to  command  ! — A fearful  dizzying  gulf  that 
absorbs  whatever  is  precious  in  the  eyes  of  men  : the  trophies  of  the 
conqueror,  the  immortal  works  of  science  and  of  art,  the  voluptuous 
pleasures  of  the  epicure,  the  whole  wealth  encompassed  by  the  seas  ! 
— To  obey  or  to  command  j To  be  or  not  to  be  ! — The  space  between 
is  as  wide  as  from  the  lowest  depths  of  hell  to  the  throne  of  the 
Almighty." 

And  lastly,  Kahale  und  Liehe.  What  is  this  drama  if  not 
a political  manifesto,  an  Emilia  Galotti  intensified  and  ex- 
aggerated, a literary  anticipation  of  the  social  upheaval  of 
1789?  None  of  the  Storm-and-Stress  writings  gives  so 
merciless  and  glaring  a picture  of  the  unspeakable  rotten- 
ness of  ancien  regime  society,  none  unfolds  so  impetuously 
and  boldly  the  standard  of  the  revolution  as  this  drama;  in 
none  of  them  is  there  a scene  which  goes  so  directly  to  the 


Fiesco  III,  2 ; 1.  c.  Ill,  83  f.  Bohn’s  trsl. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


345 


core  of  popular  misery  as  the  interview  between  Lady 
Milford,  the  prince’s  mistress,  and  the  old  valet  whose  two 
sons  were  among  some  seven  thousand  young  men  who 
were  sold  by  the  prince  to  the  English  to  be  marched  off  to 
America.®* 

*Hady  : But  they  went  not  by  compulsion? 

VaUt  {laughing  bitterly) : Oh  dear  no  ! they  were  all  volunteers ! 
Some  forward  fellows,  to  be  sure,  stepped  out  before  the  line  and 
asked  the  colonel  at  what  price  a yoke  the  prince  was  selling  men. 
But  our  most  gracious  lord  had  all  the  regiments  march  out  on  the 
parade-ground  and  the  impertinent  fellows  shot  down.  We  heard  the 
muskets  ring,  saw  their  brains  spatter  the  pavement,  and  the  whole 
army  shouted  ‘ Hurrah  for  America  ! ' 

Lady  : Good  God  i and  I heard  nothing,  noticed  nothing. 

Valet : Well,  gracious  lady — how  did  you  happen  to  be  riding  with 
his  highness  off  to  the  bear-hunt  just  as  they  struck  up  the  signal  for 
marching?  You  ought  not  to  have  lost  the  fine  sight  when  the  roll- 
ing drums  announced  to  us  that  it  was  time;  and  here  wailing  orphans 
followed  a living  father,  and  there  a mad  mother  ran  to  spit  her  suck- 
ing child  upon  the  bayonets,  and  how  they  hewed  bride  and  bride- 
groom apart  with  sabre-cuts,  while  we  graybeards  stood  there  in 
despair  and  at  last  threw  our  crutches  after  the  fellows.  Oh,  and  in 
the  midst  of  all,  the  thundering  drums  that  God  might  not  hear  us 
pray  ! ...  At  the  city  gate  they  turned  and  cried  : ‘ God  be  with  you, 
wives  and  children  ! Long  live  our  good  father,  the  prince  I At  the 
Judgment  Day  we  shall  be  back  ! ’ 

Schiller’s  heroes  are  what  Goethe’s  are  not,  types  of  out- 
ward activity.  Their  inner  life  is  less  rich;  their  r 

^ Difference  of 

impress  upon  the  world  is  stronger.  They  shape  artistic 

circumstances,  they  battle  with  fate,  they  are 

•'  •'  G-oethe’s  and 

leaders  of  great  popular  movements,  they  are  Schiller’s 

destroyers  of  usurped  and  oppressive  power.  works. 

Goethe’s  creations,  as  compared  with  the  sharp  contours 

and  subtle  shading  of  Lessing’s  character-drawings,  glow  in 

the  full  warmth  and  colour  of  life.  As  he  himself  poured 

forth  his  whole  being  in  lyrics  of  unrivalled  depth  and 


64  Hab.  u.  Liebe  II,  2;  /.  III,  393  f. 


34^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


power,  so  the  characters  of  his  epic  and  dramatic  fancy  re- 
veal themselves  to  us  wholly  and  without  reserve  ; every 
one  of  them  stands  out  roundly  and  fully,  while  the  soft 
lustre  of  poetry  is  spread  evenly  over  them  all.  Schiller 
strives  for  brilliant  effects  ; dark  masses  he  hurls  against 
floods  of  glaring  colour  ; ins*tead  of  rounding  out  his  figures 
he  flashes  a strong  light  on  one  side  of  them,  and  thus  im- 
parts to  them  a concentrated  radiance  which  often  makes 
them  appear  larger  than  they  really  are. 

As  has  been  said  already,  in  spite  of  these  obvious  con- 
trasts of  natural  bent  and  artistic  manner,  there  was  in 
o - Goethe  and  Schiller  from  their  very  beginnings 

ultimate  a unity  of  ultimate  moral  aims  not  less  apparent, 
moral  aims.  Qotz  von  Berlichingen  and  Karl  Moor,  Werther 
and  Fiesco,  however  widely  they  differ  in  range  of  thought 
and  activity,  after  all  stand  for  one  and  the  same  thing  : a 
great  and  free  personality,  raised  above  the  barriers  of  petty 
conventions  and  breathing  in  the  pure  air  of  the  universally 
human.  Ferdinand,  in  Kabale  und  Liebe^^  throws  away  the 
privileges  of  rank  and  station  for  the  prize  of  true  womanly 
love.  “ Who  can  rend  the  bonds  that  bind  two  hearts,  or 
separate  the  tones  of  a chord?  True,  I am  a nobleman, 
but  show  me  that  my  patent  of  nobility  is  older  than  the 
eternal  laws  of  the  universe,  or  my  scutcheon  more  valid 
than  the  handwriting  of  heaven  in  my  Louisa's  eyes  : ‘ This 
woman  is  for  this  man  ’ ? ” — Egmont,  whose  first  conception 
in  Goethe’s  mind  was  simultaneous  with  that  of  Gotz  and 
Faust,  is  the  very  type  of  a personality  oyerflowing  with  life, 
and  in  closest  sympathy  with  all  the  healthy  feelings  that 
swell  a human  breast.  How  he  revels  in  the  joys  of  forest 
and  field,®®  “ man’s  natural  element,  where,  exhaling  from 
the  earth,  nature’s  richest  treasures  are  poured  forth  around 


I,  4 ; /.  371. 

Egmont  V,  2 ; Werke  VII,  79.  Miss  Swan  wick’s  trsl. — Cf. 
Dicht.  u,  Wahrh.  b.  20;  Werke  XXIII,  102  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


347 


US,  while  from  the  wide  heavens  the  stars  send  down  their 
blessings  through  the  still  air  ; where,  like  earth-born  giants 
we  spring  aloft,  invigorated  by  our  mother’s  touch  ; where 
our  entire  humanity  and  our  human  desires  throb  in  every 
vein.”  How  he  delights  in  the  sturdy  independence  of  his 
Netherlanders  “ They  are  men  worthy  to  tread  God’s 
earth,  each  complete  in  himself,  a little  king,  steadfast, 
active,  capable,  loyal,  attached  to  ancient  customs.  ’Tis 
hard  to  win  their  confidence,  easy  to  retain  it.  Firm  and 
unbending  ! They  may  be  crushed  but  not  subdued.” 
How  his  countrymen  cherish  and  adore  him  : “Why  are 
we  all  so  devoted  to  him  ? Why,  because  one  can  read  in 
his  face  that  he  loves  us  ; because  joyousness,  openhearted- 
ness, and  good-nature  speak  in  his  eyes  ; because  he  pos- 
sesses nothing  that  he  does  not  share  with  him  who  needs  it, 
ay,  and  with  him  who  needs  it  not.”  How  Klarchen’s 
humble  heart  swells  up  at  the  thought  of  him®*:  “This 
chamber,  this  lowly  house,  is  a paradise,  since  Egmont’s 
love  dwells  here.  . . . There  is  not  a drop  of  false  blood 
in  his  veins.  And,  mother,  is  he  not  after  all  the  great 
Egmont  ? Yet,  when  he  comes  to  me,  how  tender  he  is, 
how  kind  ! how  anxious  he  is  about  me  ! so  nothing  but 
man,  friend,  lover  ! ” — The  Marquis  of  Posa,  the  central 
figure  of  Schiller’s  Don  Carlos  (1784-87),  takes  up  the  part 
of  Lessing’s  Nathan  in  pleading  before  the  mightiest  mon- 
arch in  Europe  for  freedom  of  thought,  for  civil  rights,  for 
the  restitution  of  “ mankind’s  lost  nobility.”’®  And  Faust 
breaks  forth  into  that  wonderful  pantheistic  confession  of 
faith,  which  is  at  the  same  time  an  apotheosis  of  hu- 
manity : 


Egmont  IV,  2 ; /.  c,  71, 

Ib.  I,  I ; c.  19. 

Ib.  I,  3 ; /.  31  f. 

Don  Carlos  III,  10  ; Sammtl.  Sc  hr.  V,  2,/.  316. 
L 343S  (Weimar  ed.).  Bayard  Taylor’s  trsl. 


348  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


The  All-enfolding, 

The  All-upholding, 

Folds  and  upholds  he  not 
Thee,  me,  himself? 

Arches  not  there  the  sky  above  us  ? 

Lies  not  beneath  us,  firm,  the  earth  ? 

And  rise  not,  on  us  shining, 

Friendly,  the  everlasting  stars? 

Look  I not,  eye  to  eye,  on  thee, 

And  feelst  not,  thronging 
To  head  and  heart,  the  force. 

Still  weaving  its  eternal  secret, 

Invisible,  visible,  round  thy  life? 

Vast  as  it  is,  fill  with  that  force  thy  heart, 

And  when  thou  in  the  feeling  wholly  blessed  art, 

Call  it  then  what  thou  wilt, — 

Call  it  Bliss  ! Heart  ! Love  ! God  ! 

We  may  now  understand  how  this  inner  affinity  of 

Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  views  of  life,  this  polarity,  as  it  were, 

(joethe  and  of  their  moral  constitution,  gradually  drew  them 

Scluller  in  Q^ich  Other  as  artists  also,  until  in  their 

their  full  . . 

maturity.  ripest  maturity  they  stood  together  as  one  man, 
as  a twofold  embodiment  of  the  most  exalted  ideals  of  their 
age. 

And  here  we  see  again  how  the  individualistic  movement 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  after  having  passed  through  the 
Transition  successive  Stages  of  Pietism,  Sentimentalism,  and 
from  the  in-  Rationalism,  after  having  subsequently  given 
to  the  collec-  ^^^e  to  the  revolutionary  commotion  of  ‘ Sturm 
tivistic  ideal,  und  Drang,’ transformed  itself  at  the  height  of 
its  development  into  a new,  ideal  collectivism,  thus  prepar- 
ing the  ground  for  the  great  national  and  social  reform 
movements  of  our  own  day.  All  of  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s 
greatest  productions  point  this  way.  They  all  lead  out  of 
narrow,  isolated,  fragmentary  conceptions  of  life  into  the 
broad  daylight  of  universal  humanity.  They  all  tend  toward 
the  representation  of  human  nature  in  its  totality.  They  all 
prophesy  a state  of  human  culture  where  the  goal  of  ex- 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


349 


istence — an  equilibrium  between  the  sensuous  and  the 
spiritual,  instinct  and  duty,  egotism  and  altruism,  the  indi- 
vidual and  society — shall  have  been  reached. 

Nor  is  it  too  much  to  say  that  the  whole  state  of  German 
culture  during  those  golden  Weimar  days  was  an  ideal  an- 
ticipation of  such  a new  era  in  the  history  of  Height  of 
mankind.  No  people  has  ever  produced  within 

. . century 

SO  limited  a range  of  time  such  an  astounding  culture, 

array  of  men  devoted  wholly  to  the  highest  tasks  and  the 
broadest  problems  of  humanity.  No  people  iias  ever  freed 
itself  so  radically  from  the  narrowing  influences  of  race, 
tradition,  and  belief,  as  the  Germans  during  the  last  decades 
of  the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Kant  when  he  dreams  of  a future  confederation  of 
all  states  and  peoples  for  the  establishment  of  a universal 
peace ; Schelling  when  he  conceives  of  the  history  of  the 
universe  as  an  interminable  process  of  spiritualization  and 
idealization^^  ; Fichte  when  he  speaks  contemptuously  of 
“ the  earth-born  men  who  recognise  their  fatherland  in  the 
soil,  the  rivers,  and  the  mountains  of  the  state  of  their 
birth,  whereas  the  sunlike  spirit,  irresistibly  attracted,  will 
wing  its  way  wherever  there  is  light  and  liberty  ; Schleier- 
macher  when  he  represents  as  truly  religious,  not  him 
who  believes  in  holy  scriptures,  but  him  who  needs  no  holy 
scriptures,  or  who  might  produce  a holy  scripture  himself 
— they  all  were  inspired  with  the  idea  of  a nobler,  fuller, 
more  perfect  type  of  man. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  there  was  an  element  of  moral 
weakness  in  this  absolute  intellectual  freedom;  that  by 

Cf.  the  essay  Zum  eivigen  Frieden  Werke  VI,  405  ff.  Kuno 

Fischer,  Gesch.  d.  neueren  Philos.  IV,  231  ff. 

Cf.  his  Abhandlungen  z.  Erl.  d.  Idealismus  d.  Wissmschaftslehre 
(1796.  97)  III  ; Sdmmil.  Werke  I,  386  f. 

Grundziige  d.  gegenw.  Zeit alters  {1^0^)  XIV  ; Sdmmtl.  Werke  Vllf 

212. 

Reden  iiber  d.  Religion^  ed.  of  1799,  /.  108. 


350  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


G-oethe’s 

manhood. 


overstepping  the  limits  of  race  and  creed  these  men  over- 
stepped the  limits  of  nature  itself;  that  their  unbounded 
worship  of  Greek  civilization,  which  to  them  stood  for  the 
noblest  symbol  of  a perfect  individuality,  revealed  a lack  of 
sympathy  with  their  own  homely  surroundings;  that  their 
message  was  addressed  not  to  the  people  at  large,  but  to 
the  cultivated  few  who  were  able  to  follow  their  aerial 
flights.  But  it  nevertheless  remains  true  that  without  the 
exalted  creations  of  their  thought  and  fancy  there  would  be 
to-day  no  German  nation;  and  history  would  lack  one  of 
the  most  striking  instances  of  collective  organization  born 
of  individualistic  ideals. 

In  Goethe’s  life  this  period  of  transition  to  the  fullest 
harmony  and  completeness  is  marked,  apart  from  the 
greater  number  of  his  finest  lyrics,  by  Iphigenie 
(1787),  Tasso  (1790),  Wilhelm  Meisters  Lehr- 
jahre  (1795-96),  Hermann  und  Dorothea  (1797), 
and  what  may  be  called  the  second  conception  of  Faust^ 
(fixed  between  1797  and  1808);  in  Schiller’s  life  by  nearly 
all  of  his  lyric  and  ballad  poetry,  by  the  Letters  on  the 
Esthetic  Education  of  Man  (1795)  and  kindred  essays,  and 
by  the  five  great  dramas,  from  Wallenstein  (1798-99)  to 
Wilhelm  Tell  (1804). 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  dwell  here  on  the  often-drawn 
comparison  between  Goethe’s  Lphigenie  and  the  Lphigeneia 
of  Euripides.  Suffice  it  to  say,  what  has  also 
Iphigenie.  often  been  said  before,  that  Goethe  by  freeing  the 
Greek  legend  from  national  limitation,  by  imbuing  it  with 
a spirit  of  universal  sympathy,  by  substituting  for  the  con- 
flict between  the  gods  and  mortals,  between  Greek  and  bar- 
barian, the  conflict  of  the  human  heart  between  its  lower 
and  its  higher  promptings,  has  given  to  this  pathetic  story 
its  final  and  eternal  form.’^® — In  the  background  there  lies 


Cf.  GG.  § 233  {p.  500  f.).  For  the  relation  of  Goethe's  drama 
to  the  art  of  Racine  and  Gluck  see  Scherer,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  p. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


351 


the  dark  night  of  Tartarus.  We  hear,  it  seems,  the  muffled 
groan  of  the  fettered  Titans  rising  from  it.  We  see  in  less 
dim  outline  the  curse-laden  heroic  figures  of  the  sons  of 
Tantalus.  Nameless  horrors  committed  by  one  generation 
after  another, — Atreus  slaughtering  his  brother’s  children; 
Agamemnon  slain  by  his  wife  and  her  wanton  lover;  the 
death  of  Klytemnaestra  at  the  hands  of  her  only  son, — loom 
up  before  us  in  gigantic  and  shadowy  proportions.  And  as 
a living  embodiment  of  the  crime-begetting  power  of  crime 
there  rushes  upon  the  scene,  plainly  visible  in  the  foreground 
of  the  action,  the  only  male  survivor  of  this  self-destroying 
race,  Orestes,  the  matricide,  pursued  by  madness  and  de- 
spairing of  life.  Against  this  mass  of  accumulated  horrors 
there  stands  out  the  pure  saintlike  figure  of  Iphigenie.  She 
is  the  only  one  of  her  race  whom  the  breath  of  perdition 
has  not  touched.  In  early  youth  a divine  dispensation  res- 
cued her  from  the  altar  on  which  she  was  about  to  be 
immolated.  Since  then  she  has  lived,  far  removed  from 
the  land  of  her  birth,  separated  from  all  that  is  dear  to  her, 
in  holy  self-renunciation  and  devotion  to  duty,  a priestess 
of  humanity  amid  barbarians.  It  is  through  her  healing 
hand,  through  contact  with  her  pure  humanity,  that  the 
frenzied  mind  of  Orestes  is  restored  to  health  and  hope, 
that  the  ancient  hereditary  curse  is  lifted  from  the  house  of 
Tantalus,  and  a new  era  of  human  brotherhood  and  free- 
dom is  ushered  in.  Goethe’s  Iphigenie  is  the  first  great 
dramatic  work  which  shows  unmistakably  the  falling  away 
from  the  titanic  impetuosity  and  revolutionary  bitterness  of 
the  ‘Sturm  und  Drang’  period;  it  is  a poetic  symbol  of 
the  purifying  influence  which  the  friendship  with  Frau 
von  Stein  exercised  upon  Goethe,  of  the  classic  serenity 
which  the  Italian  journey  (1786-87)  shed  upon  his  mind; 
it  is  a triumphal  song  of  inner  regeneration.  The  power 
of  holiness  over  sin,  of  truth  over  deceit,  of  unselfish,  all- 

538  f.  H.  Grimm,  Goethe  II,  24  ff.  Cf.,  also,  Kuno  Fischer,  Goethc- 
Schriften  I. 


352  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


enduring  love  over  wilfulness  and  gloom,  of  calm  self-posses- 
sion over  tumultuous  revolt,  has  never  been  more  beauti- 
fully portrayed;  in  crystalline  transparency  and  harmonious 
simplicity  the  modern  stage  has  not  its  equal. 

Torquato  Tasso,  still  more  exclusively  than  Iphigenie, 
deals  with  inner  struggles  and  aspirations;  although  by  no 
means  lacking  dramatic  motive,  it  is  not  so  much 
Tasso.  ^ drama  as  a symphony  of  thought  and  feeling, 

revealing  the  deepest  chords  of  Goethe’s  own  spiritual  ex- 
perience. Here,  too,  we  see  a conflict  between  the  diseased 
and  the  healthy,  between  a fragmentary  and  a compre- 
hensive view  of  life.  On  the  one  hand,  Tasso  himself, 
the  inspired  artist,  the  worshipper  of  beauty,  the  lofty 
eighteenth-century  individualist.  He  lives  in  a world  of  his 
own,  peopled  with  the  creations  of  his  fancy.” 

His  eye  scarce  lingers  on  this  earthly  scene. 

To  nature’s  harmony  his  ear  is  tuned. 

What  history  offers  and  what  life  presents 
His  bosom  promptly  and  with  joy  receives. 

The  widely  scattered  is  by  him  combined, 

And  his  quick  feeling  animates  the  dead. 

Oft  he  ennobles  what  we  count  for  naught. 

What  others  treasure  is  by  him  despised. 

Thus,  moving  in  his  own  enchanted  sphere. 

The  wondrous  man  doth  still  allure  us  on 
To  wander  with  him  and  partake  his  joy. 

Though  seeming  to  approach  us,  he  remains 
Remote  as  ever,  and  perchance  his  eye. 

Resting  on  us,  sees  spirits  in  our  place. 

On  the  other  hand,  Antonio,  the  man  of  the  world.  One 
might  call  him  an  ideal  anticipation  of  the  typical  German 
of  to-day.  Stately,  proud,  self-possessed,  he  looks  at  life  as 
a continual  struggle  of  opposing  forces,  and  he  is  sure  to  be 
himself  on  the  winning  side.  Organization,  discipline,  offi- 
cial duties — these  are  the  themes  which  he  is  fond  of  dis- 

Words  of  Leonore,  Tasso  I,  i ; IVerke  VII,  204.  Cf.  Kuno 
Fischer,  Goethe^Schriften  III, 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


353 


cussing.  He  chactarerizes  himself  in  characterizing  his 
chosen  model,  Pope  Gregory  XIIL'^® 

The  world  lies  spread  before  his  searching  gaze 
Clear  as  the  interests  of  his  own  domain. 

In  action  we  must  yield  him  our  applause, 

And  mark  with  joy  when  time  unfolds  the  plans 
Which  his  deep  forethought  fashioned  long  before. 

He  honours  science  when  it  is  of  use, — 

Teaching  to  govern  states,  to  know  mankind; 

He  prizes  art  when  it  embellishes, — 

When  it  exalts  and  beautifies  his  Rome. 

Within  his  sphere  of  influence  he  admits 

Naught  inefficient,  and  alone  esteems 

The  active  cause  and  instrument  of  good.  ' 

Between  these  diametrically  opposed  views  of  life,  be- 
tween  these  two  characters  who  collide  with  each  other 
“ because  nature  did  not  form  one  man  of  both,”  the  pen- 
dulum of  the  action  swings  to  and  fro.  In  the  beginning 
our  sympathies  are  altogether  with  Tasso.  The  modesty  of 
the  youth  around  whose  head  there  flames  the  halo  of 
immortal  genius;  the  noble  seriousness  of  his  soaring  imagi- 
nation; his  deep  feeling  for  friendship  which  makes  him 
exclaim^®: 

Who  doth  not  in  his  friends  behold  the  world 
Deserves  not  that  of  him  the  world  should  hear; 

the  ingenuousness  of  his  gratitude  toward  his  lord  and 
patron  the  duke  Alfonso  of  Ferrara;  the  purity  of  his  fer- 
vent passion  for  the  gentle  princess  Leonora: — all  this  makes 
us  see  in  him  a true  messenger  of  the  divine.  Antonio,  on 
the  contrary,  impresses  us  at  first  as  essentially  narrow  and 
earthy.  He  has  that  veneration  for  ‘‘  solid  facts  ” which  so 
often  is  nothing  but  incapacity  to  see  things  in  their  true 
dimensions;  he  has  no  feeling  for  the  rights  of  genius;  he 
ill  disguises  his  contempt  for  a life  devoted  to  the  problems 
of  the  inner  self;  he  openly  betrays  the  smallness  of  his 


Tasso  I,  4 ; /.  c,  217. 


Id.  I,  3 ; c,  212. 


354  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


nature  by  begrudging  the  laurel  wreath  which  Leonora 
pressed  upon  Tasso’s  forehead.  In  the  hostile  encounter 
of  the  two  men  Antonio  appears  as  the  representative  of 
caste  and  courtly  etiquette;  he  acts  in  very  much  the  same 
way  that  the  average  Prussian  official  of  to-day  would  act 
when  embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  an  erratic  advocate 
of  individualism;  while  Tasso  stands  for  personal  nobility 
and  the  eternal  demands  of  the  human  heart. 

Nevertheless,  the  leading  note  of  the  poem  as  a whole  is 
by  no  means  the  exaltation  of  the  individual.  It  is  rather 
a note  of  warning  against  excessive  individualism,  a plea 
for  self-restraint,  composure,  and  social  endeavour.  In  this 
respect  Tasso  shows  himself  lamentably  lacking.  He  has 
as  little  control  over  himself  as  Werther,  he  has  no  con- 
ception of  his  duties  toward  society.  He  whines  and 
whimpers  like  a spoiled  child,  when  he  receives  a well- 
deserved  and  friendly  reproof  from  the  duke  for  having 
violated,  through  his  challenge  of  Antonio,  the  law  of 
courtly  conduct.  Tormented  by  a groundless  suspicion  that 
the  princess,  too,  has  turned  away  from  him,  he  completely 
loses  his  balance.  He  raves  like  a maniac  when,  as  a 
consequence  of  his  own  impossible  behaviour,  a separation 
from  the  princess  becomes  at  last  inevitable.  The  man 
who  from  the  depth  of  his  bosom  called  forth  a world  of 
transcendent  harmony  and  beauty  succumbs  in  the  con- 
flict with  real  life.  He  would  end,  like  Werther,  in  self- 
destruction,  if  here  Antonio  did  not  again  step  into  the 
foreground,  no  longer  as  an  enemy  and  rival,  but  as  a 
friendly  helper.  While  Tasso  in  the  conflict  with  the  outer 
world  comes  near  losing  himself,  Antonio,  as  a witness  of 
his  struggles,  has  gained  a new  insight  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  human  heart.  His  own  nature  is  expanded  through 
sympathy  with  the  poor,  wayward  dreamer  ; he  is  able  now 
to  appreciate  the  inner  suffering  which  is  a necessary  con- 
dition of  great  artistic  achievement;  he  is  prepared  for  a fuller 
understanding  of  ideal  aspirations.  Thus  the  symphony 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


355 


dismisses  us  with  a hopeful  and  harmonious  finale.  In  the 
union  of  Tasso  and  Antonio  we  see  a symbol  of  humanity 
enlarged  and  heightened,  the  harmony  between  the  indi- 
vidual and  society  is  held  out  as  the  ideal  of  the  future. 

The  same  theme  underlies  Wilhelm  Meister^  next  to 
Faust  the  most  distinctly  autobiographical  and  at  the  same 
time  the  most  universal  of  Goethe’s  works.  As  Wolfram’s 
Farzival  unfolds  before  our  eyes  the  highest 
culture  of  mediaeval  chivalry,  as  Grimmels- 
hausen’s  Sunplicissimus  reveals  to  us  the  deep- 
est misery  of  seventeenth-century  absolutism,  so  Goethe’s 
Wilhelm  Meister  gives  us  the  most  complete  picture  of 
German  society  in  its  transition  from  ancien  regwie  aris- 
tocracy to  the  modern  aristocracy  of  the  spirit. 

No  more  convincing  proof  of  the  outward  limitations 
and  the  inner  fulness  of  German  life  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  can  be  imagined  than  this  book.  We 
of  the  present  day  feel  more  clearly  perhaps  what  Goethe 
felt  when  in  contrasting  himself  with  Sir  Walter  Scott  he 
once  spoke  of  the  vast  opportunities  offered  to  the  Eng- 
lish novelist  by  the  glorious  traditions  and  the  public 
life  of  his  country,  while  he^  the  German,  in  order  to  give 
animation  to  his  picture,  was  obliged  to  resort  to  the  most 
forlorn  conditions  of  society,  vagrant  comedians  and  impe- 
cunious country  gentlemen.  We  feel  as  though  we  could  not 
breathe  in  this  atmosphere,  as  though  there  was  no  chance 
for  activity  in  a social  order  in  which  the  main  interests  of 
modern  German  life,  a national  dynasty,  a national  parlia- 
ment, problems  of  national  organization,  defence,  and  self- 
assertion,  had  no  part.  We  even  feel  something  akin  to 
contempt  for  these  men  and  women  who  keep  a most 


Cf.  Goethes  Unterhaltungen  mit  d.  Kanzler  Fr.  von  Muller ^ ed. 
Burkhardt  p.  55. — It  was  in  a similar  frame  of  mind  that  Goethe 
sought  refuge  from  the  hopelessness  of  contemporary  politics  in  a re- 
juvenation of  the  old  German  animal  epic.  His  Reineke  Fuchs  (1794) 
is  indeed  little  more  than  a paraphrase  of  the  Low  German  Reineke. 


35^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

scrupulous  account  of  their  own  precious  emotions,  who 
bestow  the  most  serious  consideration  upon  a host  of  in- 
significant trifles,  and  who,  at  the  same  time,  only  too  often 
are  found  erring  in  the  simplest  question  of  right  and 
wrong.  The  curse  of  dilettanteism  seems  to  lie  upon  this 
whole  generation.  With  no  great  public  task  before  them, 
with  no  incentive  to  stake  their  hopes  and  to  risk  their  lives 
for  an  all-absorbing  common  cause,  what  wonder  that  they 
— and  the  most  cultivated  of  them  most  conspicuously — 
should  waste  their  efforts  in  fictitious  interests  and  unreal 
schemes,  from  Wilhelm's  delight  in  puppet-shows  to  the 
fantastic  symbolisms  of  the  secret  brotherhood,  from  the 
pietistic  self-indulgence  of  the  Beautiful  Soul  to  Theresa's 
experiments  in  dress  reform  and  the  emancipation  of  women  ? 
With  the  exception  of  Mignon  and  Philine,  the  child  of  the 
past  and  the  child  of  a day,  there  is  not  a single  prominent 
character  in  the  book  capable  of  forgetting  himself  and 
living  unreflectively  and  resolutely  for  the  homely  duties  of 
the  present.  But  while  this  is  true,  it  is  also  true — and 
here  lies  the  paramount  importance  of  the  novel  for  its  own 
time  as  well  as  ours — that  the  one  ideal  running  through 
its  pages,  the  one  goal  for  which  nearly  all  of  its  leading 
characters  are  striving,  is  this  very  self-forgetfulness.  Not 
the  simple  self-forgetfulness  of  the  natural,  gregarious  man, 
but  the  acquired  self-forgetfulness  of  the  cultivated,  indi- 
vidualized man,  self-forgetfulness  as  the  result  of  fullest 
self*  development  and  self-expansion  : — this  is  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  the  moral  wisdom  laid  down  in  Wilhelm 
Meister. 

And  here  we  see  the  inner  justification  of  that  peaceful 
revolution  which,  as  was  said  before,  is  reflected  in  this 
book:  the  transition  from  the  class  rule  of  the  old  hereditary 
nobility  to  the  freedom  of  modern  intellectual  aristocracy. 
As  Goethe  himself,  the  great-grandson  of  a country  farrier, 
the  son  of  a Frankfurt  citizen,  had  entered  and  illumined 
the  court  of  the  duke  of  Weimar,  so  Wilhelm  by  sheer  force 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


357 


of  character  and  mind  outgrows  the  bourgeois  surroundings 
of  his  youth  and  is  received  into  the  aristocracy,  not  in  the 
manner  of  a social  upstart,  but  as  a man  the  inner  fulness 
of  whose  life  necessarily  demands  and  creates  an  outward 
form  equally  full  and  exalted. 

Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic  of  the  pre-emi- 
nently aesthetic  drift  of  German  life  during  this  epoch  than 
that  Wilhelm  reaches  his  goal  by  the  roundabout  way  of  an 
actor’s  career.  Nothing  could  illustrate  more  clearly  the 
ideal  of  culture  held  by  Goethe  and  his  contemporaries 
than  the  reasons  by  which  Wilhelm  justifies  his  decision  to 
take  this  step. 

“ I know  not  how  it  is  in  other  countries,”  he  says,®^  but  in  Ger- 
many no  one  except  a nobleman  has  an  opportunity  for  attaining  to 
a well-rounded  and,  if  I may  say  so,  personal  culture.  A citizen  may 
render  useful  service,  he  may  at  best  cultivate  his  intellect  ; but  his 
personality  will  be  lost  whatever  he  may  undertake.  The  nobleman 
through  his  very  associations  is  forced  to  acquire  a distinguished  bear- 
ing, which  in  course  of  time  becomes  a natural  and  dignified  ease. 
As  no  house  is  ever  closed  to  him,  as  he  has  to  pay  with  his  own 
figure,  his  own  person,  be  it  at  court  or  in  the  army,  he  has  every 
reason  to  be  conscious  of  his  worth  and  to  show  that  he  is  conscious 
of  it.  A certain  stately  gracefulness  in  common  things,  and  a species 
of  light  elegance  in  earnest  and  important  matters,  becomes  him  well, 
because  he  thus  proves  that  he  always  keeps  his  equipoise.  He  is  a 
pubMc  character,  and  the  more  refined  his  movements,  the  more  so- 
norous his  voice,  the  more  collected  and  reserved  his  whole  deport- 
ment, the  more  perfect  he  becomes.  For  the  citizen,  on  the  other 
hand,  nothing  is  more  fitting  than  a tacit  consciousness  of  the  limits 
within  which  he  is  restrained.  The  question  with  him  is  not,  ‘ What 
are  you?’  but,  ‘ What  have  you  got?  what  discernment,  knowledge, 
talent,  or  riches?’  The  nobleman  gives  all  that  he  has  to  give  in  the 
display  of  his  personal  qualities,  but  the  citizen  cannot  and  must  not 
give  anything  through  his  personality.  The  former  is  justified  in 

Wilh.  Meisters  Lehrjahre  V,  3 ; Werk(  XVII,  278  ff.  Cf.  R.  M. 
Meyer,  Goethe p.  255  ff. — The  overrefinement  of  German  society  of  the 
time  is  strikingly  illustrated  by  two  novels  of  Goethe’s  friend  Fritz 
Jacobi,  ^//w?7/ (1792)  and  JVo/demar  Cf.  Koberstein  /.  c.  IV, 

295  ff. 


3S8  social  forces  in  german  literature. 

seeming,  the  latter  is  compelled  to  he,  and  all  his  attempts  at  seeming 
are  ridiculous  and  absurd.  The  former  must  do  and  act,  the  latter 
only  contributes  and  procures  ; he  must  cultivate  some  particular 
talent  in  order  to  be  useful,  and  it  is  'well  understood  that  in  his  exist- 
ence there  can  be  no  harmony,  because  in  order  to  render  one  talent 
useful  he  must  abandon  the  exercise  of  every  other. 

‘‘  I must  confess  that  I feel  an  irresistible  impulse  to  pursue  just  this 
harmonious  cultivation  of  my  nature,  which  has  been  denied  to  me  by 
birth.  My  wish  to  become  a public  character,  and  to  widen  my 
sphere  of  attraction  and  influence,  is  every  day  becoming  stronger. 
To  this  is  joined  my  taste  for  poetry  and  everything  connected 
therewith,  and  the  necessity  of  cultivating  my  mind  in  rder  that  I 
may  come  to  enjoy  only  the  truly  good  and  the  truly  beautiful.  You 
will  at  once  perceive  that  the  stage  alone  can  supply  what  I require, 
and  that  in  no  other  element  can  I educate  myself  according  to  my 
wishes.  Upon  the  stage  the  man  of  cultivated  mind  may  display  his 
personal  accomplishments  as  effectively  as  in  the  upper  classes  of 
society,  his  bodily  and  mental  endowments  must  improve  in  equal 
proportion  ; and  there,  better  than  in  any  other  place,  can  I assume 
the  twofold  character  of  seeming  and  of  actually  being.’* 

The  organic  connection,  then,  of  Wilhelm’s  theatrical 
experiences  with  the  final  aims  of  his  life  is  perfectly  ap- 
parent. As  a necessary  stage  in  his  inner  development 
they  fully  deserve  the  prominence  given  to  them  in  the 
novel.  We  cannot  help  feeling  that  Wilhelm  would  have 
been  more  of  a man  if  it  had  been  given  to  him  to  train 
his  powers  in  the  conflict  with  real  life.  We  should  be 
more  in  sympathy  with  him  if  the  goal  of  his  ambition  had 
been  to  be  a Caesar  rather  than  to  act  Hamlet.  But  we 
clearly  see  why  this  was  impossible,  and  we  have  no  right 
to  apply  the  standards  of  our  own  age  to  that  of  Goethe. 

Our  own  life  would  be  narrow  and  barren  if  we  were  to 
lose  sight  of  the  ultimate  ideal  of  humanity  held  out  in 
this  work:  the  fullest  and  freest  development  of  all  human 
powers.  This  is  an  ideal  so  far  removed  from  selfishness 
that  it  may  be  called  the  gospel  of  a secular  Christianity. 
If  the  teaching  of  Christ  rests  on  the  belief  that  every  in- 
dividual soul  has  within  it  the  possibility  of  salvation,  the 
teaching  of  Goethe  rests  on  the  belief  that  every  individual 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


359 


mind  has  within  it  a tendency  toward  complete  manifesta- 
tion of  itself.  The  former  preaches  the  necessity  of  in- 
dividual salvation  in  order  to  bring  about  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  the  latter  preaches  the  necessity  of  individual  self- 
development in  order  to  raise  mankind  to  a higher  level. 
The  former  is  democratic,  the  latter  is  aristocratic;  but 
both  are  opposed  to  spiritual  tyranny  of  any  sort.  To  both 
the  inner  motive,  the  mental  effort,  the  moral  striving  are 
the  things  which  decide  the  worth  of  a man.  Both  believe 
in  the  essential  goodness  of  human  nature,  which  makes  it 
possible  for  us  to  preserve  our  better  self  even  in  error  and 
sin,  nay,  to  attain  through  error  and  sin  to  deeper  insights 
and  loftier  ideals.®^ 

As  if  to  escape  for  a while  from  the  perplexing  problems 
of  conscious  self-culture,  Goethe,  fresh  from  Wilhebn  Meis- 
ter^  turned  to  the  representation  of  a life  lim- 
ited in  its  aspirations,  hedged  in  by  tradition, 
but  sure  of  itself  and  complete  in  all  its  innocent 
simplicity.  Hennann  und  Dorothea  is  the  last  and  highest 
outcome  of  the  idyllic  undercurrent  of  eighteenth-century 
literature,  the  feeble  beginnings  of  which  we  observed  in 
the  laborious  descriptions  of  nature  by  Brockes  and  Haller, 
and  in  the  Anacreontic  trivialities  of  Hagedorn  and  Gleim. 
Until  the  beginning  of  the  Storm-and-Stress  period  there  was 
little  either  of  thought  or  of  life  in  German  idyllic  poetry. 
The  full,  sonorous  strains  of  Ewald  von  Kleist’s  Fruhling 
(1749)  were  after  all  without  a deeper  meaning.  The 
dainty  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  of  Salomon  Gessner’s 
Idyllen  (1754-56)  were  as  unreal  and  fictitious  as  Rousseau’s 


Of  the  affinity  of  Goethe’s  Wilhebn  Meister  to  Wieland’s  Agathon 
we  have  spoken  in  the  preceding  chapter.  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that,  as  Lessing  called  Agathon  the  only  novel  for  thinking  men,  so 
Schiller  said  of  Wilhelm  Meister : ‘‘ I could  not  be  friend  with  him 
who  did  not  appreciate  this  work”  (letter  to  Goethe,  June  19,  1795; 
Schillers  Briefe  ed.  Jonas  IV,  190). — Cf.  J.  R.  Seeley,  Goethe  Reviewed 
after  Sixty  Years  p,  1 20  ff* 


360  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

dreams  of  the  primitive  innocence  of  mankind  or  the 
seraphic  flights  of  Klopstock’s  imagination.  Only  through 
the  new  impulse  given  by  the  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang  * movement 
to  the  observation  of  everyday  life,  through  the  new  in- 
sight afforded  by  Hamann  and  Herder  into  the  actual  con- 
ditions of  primitive  peoples,  through  the  new  light  shed  by 
Winckelmann  and  his  successors  on  the  moral  forces  under- 
lying the  ideal  of  Greek  simplicity,  above  all,  through  the 
masterly  reproduction  of  the  Homeric  world  in  Voss’s 
translation  of  the  Odyssey  (1781),  the  elements  were  given 
for  an  idyllic  poem  which,  without  leaving  the  firm  soil  of 
familiar  reality,  should  at  the  same  time  open  up  a far-reach- 
ing ideal  perspective.  In  the  union  of  these  elements  there 
lies  the  peculiar  charm  of  Goethe’s  Hermann  und  Dorothea. 

In  reading  it  we  feel  as  if  we  were  looking  at  a modern 
and  a secular  counterpart  to  one  of  those  wonderful  religious 
paintings  in  which  a Van  Eyck  or  a Memlinc  embodied  the 
idyllic  side  of  mediaeval  Christianity.  Memlinc  spreads 
before  us  a landscape  in  which  we  easily  recognise  the  dis- 
tinguishing features  of  his  own  age.*^  We  see  towering 
castles  on  hilltops;  cities  surrounded  by  wall  and  moat, 
mighty  cathedrals  looming  up  in  their  midst;  we  see  the 
farmer  sowing  and  reaping  in  the  fields;  we  see  the  trades- 
man laden  with  his  wares,  and  troops  of  stately  riders  on 
the  highway.  The  meadows  are  strewn  with  buttercups 
and  daisies;  birds  are  sporting  in  the  air;  flocks  of  sheep 
are  grazing  on  the  hillside,  the  shepherds  with  staff  and 
bagpipe  sitting  close  by.  Charming  as  this  familiar  and 
homelike  scenery  is  in  itself,  it  yet  points  beyond  itself  to  a 
higher  spiritual  life.  The  city  with  its  Gothic  spires  and 
gables  is  Jerusalem;  the  knights  on  the  highway  are  the 
Magi  of  the  East  with  their  retinue,  travelling  in  search  of 
the  star  of  Bethlehem  ; and  the  shepherds  are  accosted  by 


The  following  is  a description  of  some  scenes  in  Memlinc’s  Seven 
Joys  of  Mary,  now  in  the  Munich  Pinakothek. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


361 


the  angel  of  the  Lord  announcing  the  birth  of  the  Saviour. 
In  the  midst  of  our  own  kin  there  walk  the  figures  of  a 
sacred  past;  the  present  is  felt  as  a living  part  of  an  end- 
less eternity. 

In  Goethe’s  Hermann  u?id  Dorothea  there  is  no  admix- 
ture of  the  supernatural,  no  heavenly  figures  mingle  here 
with  men.  Yet  here  also  we  gain  a calming  sense  of  the 
kinship  and  essential  oneness  of  all  life.  We  see,  as  it 
were,  a living  illustration  of  what  Schiller  meant  by  his®^ 
Und  die  Sonne  Homers,  siehe  ! sie  lachelt  auch  uns. 
Though  German  to  the  core,  this  poem  is  surrounded  with 
the  halo  of  Greek  ideality;  though  instinct  with  the  forces 
and  problems  of  actual  life,  it  represents  types  of  a simple 
and  pure  humanity.  Although  it  holds  itself  in  the  narrow 
circle  of  family  experiences  and  village  society,  it  reflects  in 
this  narrow  circle  the  great  movements  of  the  world’s  his- 
tory, the  eternal  round  of  decay  and  growth,  of  concentra- 
tion and  expansion,  of  stability  and  progress.  The  little 
village  near  the  Rhine  with  its  peaceful  streets,  its  neatly 
stuccoed  houses  and  gabled  roofs,  embowered  in  its  vine- 
yards and  wheatfields,  appears  to  us  as  a symbol  of  those 
sustaining  forces  of  custom  and  tradition  which  connect 
our  own  life  with  that  of  the  remotest  past.  The  distant 
thunder  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  commotion  caused 
by  the  passage  of  the  emigrants,  the  striking  individualities 
standing  out  among  this  wandering  community,  remind  us 
of  the  equally  enduring  forces  of  change  and  development. 
Hermann,  the  chaste,  self-restrained  youth,  the  bashful 
lover,  the  loyal  son,  performing  quietly  the  settled  duties 
of  each  day;  Dorothea,  the  thrifty  manager,  the  ready 
helper,  the  heroic  virgin,  tried  in  homelessness  and  adversity, 
are  the  typical  representatives  of  those  two  elemental  ten- 
dencies of  human  life.  Modest  and  restricted  as  are  the 
surroundings  in  which  they  live,  they  move  before  us  with 


Der  Spaziergang;  Sdmmtl,  Sc  hr.  XI,  91. 


362  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  simple  dignity  of  beings  belonging  to  a higher  order  of 
existence,  and  in  their  final  union  we  gain  a glimpse  of 
complete  manhood  and  womanhood.®*^ 

From  the  sight  of  this  complete,  though  limited  and  child- 
like existence  Goethe,  now  in  the  fulness  of  his  maturity, 
returned  to  the  visions  which  had  haunted  his 
youthful  years;  he  resumed  his  work  on  Faust. 
He  resumed  it  a different  man  from  what  he 
was  when  he  began  it,  when  he  conceived  of  Faust  as  a 
reckless  individualist  whose  turbulent  passion  overleaps  all 
bounds  of  law  and  tradition,  burying  in  its  torrent  the  dreams 
of  happiness  and  peace  and  innocence.  In  the  love  of 
Frau  von  Stein  Goethe  had  found  a safe  harbour  for  his 
affections;  the  sojourn  in  Italy  had  opened  to  him  the 
full  glory  of  classic  art;  the  study  of  Spinoza  as  well  as  his 
own  zoological  and  botanical  investigations,  in  which  he 
anticipated  the  modern  theory  of  evolution,  had  confirmed 
him  in  a thoroughly  monistic  view  of  the  world  and  strength- 
ened his  belief  in  a universal  law  which  makes  evil  itself  an 
integral  part  of  the  good;  the  friendship  with  Schiller  had 
brought  him  into  closest  contact  with  a life  which  was  a 
far-shining  evidence  of  the  power  of  the  mind  to  assimilate 
and  transform  matter.  How  could  a man  who  had  gone 
through  all  this,  who  had  himself  experienced  a complete 
inner  regeneration,  how  could  the  poet  of  Iphigenie^  Tasso^ 
Wilhelm  Meister^  and  Hermann  und  Dorothea  resume  a 
theme  like  Faust  without  reflecting  in  it  this  revolution  of 
his  inner  self — in  other  words,  without  changing  Faust 
from  the  rebellious  realist  of  the  ‘ Sturm  und  Drang ' years 
into  an  ideal  representative  of  struggling  and  striving 
humanity  ? 

Among  the  scenes  which  reveal  this  momentous  change 
in  Goethe’s  Faust  conception,  the  most  important  are  the 

Cf.  W.  Scherer's  admirable  analysis  of  Hermann  u.  Dorothea*, 
Gesch.  d.  d.  Lift.  p.  568  ; also,  V.  Hehn,  Ueher  Goethes  Herm.  u.  Dor, 
p.  41  fi»  @6  if* 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


363 


* Prologue  in  Heaven,’  and  the  succession  of  scenes  which 
in  the  completed  First  Part  of  1808  fill  up  the  gap  left  in  the 
Fragment  oi  1790  between  Faust’s  first  monologue  and  his 
definite  union  with  Mephisto. 

The  poetic  framework  even  of  these  scenes  can  hardly  be 
reconciled  with  what  we  should  expect  from  a poem  deal- 
ing with  the  ultimate  problems  of  modern  life.  The  very 
fact  that  the  ‘ Prologue  in  Heaven  ’ was  modelled  after 
the  beginning  of  the  Book  of  Job,  where  Satan  amid  the 
sons  of  God  appears  before  the  Lord,  shows  how  little  its 
artistic  form  tallies  with  its  intellectual  meaning.  That 
Jehovah  should  converse  with  Satan  about  the  conduct  of 
his  servant  Job  is  perfectly  consistent  with  the  view  of 
the  divine  held  throughout  the  Old  Testament.  The 
modern  conception  of  God,  which  Goethe  himself  per- 
haps more  than  any  other  man  of  his  time  helped  to 
disseminate,  the  conception  of  the  divine  as  the  universal 
spirit  in  whom  we  live,  move,  and  have  our  being,  as  the 
oneness  of  all  forces,  the  harmony  of  all  existence,  this  con- 
ception is  so  sublime  and  all-embracing  that  any  attempt  to 
contract  it  into  the  visible  symbol  of  a separate  personality 
must  of  necessity  fail.  The  same,  of  course,  is  true  of  the 
modern  conception  of  evil.  Evil,  according  to  Goethe’s 
own  belief,  has  no  positive  existence  at  all.  It  is  merely 
the  negative  side  of  existence.  It  is  the  tendency  to  disin- 
tegration and  annihilation,  immanent  in  all  life,  and  at  the 
time,  though  in  spite  of  itself,  productive  of  life.  To  per- 
sonify evil  in  Mephisto  and  to  represent  him  approaching 
the  Lord  with  the  offer  of  a wager  and  engaging  with  Faust 
in  a bargain  for  his  soul,  is  therefore  a most  inadequate  ex- 
pression of  the  modern  view  of  good  and  evil.  We  expect 
to  be  admitted  into  the  mysteries  of  a harmonious  universe, 
to  see  the  unity  of  all  life  brought  out  in  sweeping  outline, 
and  we  find  ourselves  taken  back  to  the  mediaeval  dualism 
of  heaven  and  hell. 

If  Goethe’s  Faust^  then,  from  the  highest  point  of  view  is 


364  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

seen  not  to  hold  what  it  appears  to  promise,  if  it  fails  to  be 
a complete  embodiment  of  modern  pantheism,  it  certainly 
is  a complete  embodiment  of  the  modern  idea  of  personality 
as  related  to  its  social  environment.  Restless  endeavour,  in- 
cessant striving  from  lower  spheres  of  life  to  higher  ones, 
from  the  sensuous  to  the  spiritual,  from  enjoyment  to  work, 
from  creed  to  deed,  from  self  to  humanity  : — this  is  the 
moving  thought  of  the  whole  drama;  and  although  it  is  not 
until  the  Second  Part  that  this  thought  assumes  its  fullest 
poetic  reality,  it  is  clearly  outlined  even  in  the  First. 

The  keynote  is  struck  for  the  first  time  in  the  ‘ Pro- 
logue in  Heaven.*  We  hear  that  Faust,  the  daring  idealist, 
the  servant  of  God,  is  to  be  tempted  by  Mephisto,  the 
despiser  of  reason,  the  materialistic  scoffer.  But  we  also 
hear,  and  we  hear  it  from  God’s  own  lips,  as  in  Lessing’s 
drama  we  heard  it  through  a voice  from  above,  that  the 
tempter  will  not  succeed.  Evil  cannot,  in  the  end,  succeed. 
In  its  very  nature  it  is  a condition  of  the  good.  God  allows 
the  Devil  free  play  because  he  knows  that  he  will  frustrate 
his  own  endeavour.®® 

Man's  active  nature,  flagging,  seeks  too  soon  the  level; 

Unqualified  repose  he  learns  to  crave  ; 

Whence,  willingly,  the  comrade  him  I gave, 

Who  works,  excites,  and  must  create,  as  Devil. 

Faust  will  be  led  astray— ‘‘es  irrt  der  Mensch  so  lang  er 
strebt”;  but  he  will  not  abandon  his  higher  aspirations; 
through  aberration  and  sin  he  will  find  the  true  way  toward 
which  his  inner  nature  instinctively  guides  him.  He  will 
not  eat  dust. 

For  the  second  time  the  message  of  hope  is  heard  in  the 
‘ Angels’  Chant  ’ on  Easter  Morning.  Faust,  after  the  pas- 

Prol.  im  Himmel  v.  340  ff.  The  trsl.  is  Bayard  Taylor's. — For 
the  Faust  literature  cf.  GG.  § 246.  Among  the  most  recent  com- 
mentaries maybe  singled  out  H.  Baumgart,  Goethes  Faust  als  ein~ 
heitl.  Dichtung  erldutert  (1893)  and  Veit  Valentin,  Goethes  Fausidicht- 
U7tg  in  Hirer  kunstler,  Einheit  dargestellt  (1S94).  Cf,  Thomas's  ed. 
vii 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


365 


sionate  outburst  of  titanic  feelings  in  the  first  monologue, 
after  the  rapturous  delight  into  which  the  appearance  of  the 
Earth-Spirit  had  transported  him,  has  been  hurled  back 
into  Man's  uncertain  fate/' 

The  fine  emotions  whence  our  life  we  mould. 

Lie  in  the  earthly  tumult  dumb  and  cold. 

He  is  sick  and  weary.  The  same  man  who  a short  time 
before  reached  out  into  the  spirit-world,  who  felt  his  own 
vital  force  beating  in  nature’s  veins,  who  was  at  one  with 
the  infinite  life,  is  now  like  the  worm, 

That  while  in  dust  it  lives  and  seeks  its  bread 
Is  crushed  and  buried  by  the  wanderer’s  tread. 

Death  seems  to  him  the  only  salvation.  He  is  just  put- 
ting the  poisonous  cup  to  his  lips,  when  the  Easter  bells 
and  the  song  of  the  angels  announcing  the  resurrection  of 
the  Saviour  call  him  back  to  life.®® 

Christ  ist  erstanden  ! 

Freude  dem  Sterblichen, 

Den  die  verderblichen, 

Schleichenden,  erblichen 
Mangel  umwanden. 


Christ  ist  erstanden 

Aus  der  Verwesung  Schoos! 

Reisset  von  Banden 
Freudig  euch  los ! 

Thatig  ihn  preisenden, 

Liebe  beweisenden, 

Briiderlich  speisenden, 

Predigend  reisenden, 

Wonne  verheissenden, 

Euch  ist  der  Meister  nah, 

Each  ist  er  da! 

To  Faust  this  song  brings  back  the  memory  of  his  youth-, 
of  the  years  when  he  could  still  believe  and  pray;  to  us  it  is 
at  the  same  time  a prophecy  of  his  future,  when  he  himself 


Faust  I,  638  ff. 


“ H.  737  ff. 


366  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

will  rise  from  the  thraldom  of  self-gratification,  when  in 
brotherly  love,  in  work  for  his  fellow  men,  he  will  work  out 
his  own  redemption. 

For  the  present,  to  be  sure,  his  course  leads  down  into 
darkness.  But  even  on  this  path  of  gloom  Faust  never 
loses  himself  entirely.  His  gaze  even  here  is  turned  toward 
the  light.  Again  and  again  we  see  his  ideal  self  shining 
forth  through  the  disguise  of  sin  and  despair. 

From  the  fatal  pleasure-walk  where  the  evil  one  for  the 
first  time  joined  him,  he  returns  to  his  study,  calm  and  re- 
freshed. His  spiritual  nature  has  been  awakened;  he 
yearns  the  rivers  of  existence,  the  very  founts  of  life  to 
reach”;  he  turns  to  the  gospel  of  St.  John  and  sets  himself 
to  translating  its  opening  lines  from  the  hallowed  original 
into  his  ‘^beloved  German.”®® 

Geschrieben  steht:  ‘ Im  Anfang  war  das  Wori,^ 

How  can  the  Word^  a mere  form,  a name  of  a thing,  not  a 
thing  itself,  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  things  ? Would 
not:  Hn  the  beginning  was  the  Thought'  be  a better  trans- 
lation ? Thought,  as  the  essence,  the  substance,  the  inner 
meaning  of  all  life  ? But  thought  is  not  necessarily  crea- 
tive, thought  sometimes  remains  without  external  manifes- 
tation. Why  not  then:  ’ In  the  beginning  was  the  Power  ' ? 
For  power  implies  a tendency  toward  tangible  results,  it 
brings  to  mind  the  shaping  and  reshaping  of  matter. 
But  power  may  be  something  merely  mechanical.  The 
formative  principle  of  the  universe  cannot  be  merely  me- 
chanical; it  must  be  something  living,  personal,  conscious, 
active  : — 

Mir  hilft  der  Geist!  Auf  einmal  seh  ich  Rat 
Und  schreibe  getrost:  ‘ Im  Anfang  war  die  That! 

It  is  clear  that  as  long  as  Faust  adheres  to  such  resolute 
and  manly  convictions  as  these,  the  evil  one  has  no  power 


Faust  Ip  1224  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  3^7 

over  him;  and  we  understand  why  Mephisto  waits  for  a 
better  opportunity  to  lay  his  snare. 

He  finds  this  opportunity  only  too  soon.  Faust  relaps- 
ing into  a fit  of  pessimism  curses  all  the  highest  joys  and 
ideals  of  existence.  Mephisto,  on  his  part,  holds  before 
him  the  magic  mirror  of  sensual  lust,  and  now  at  last  Faust 
is  ready  to  make  his  compact  with  the  devil.  But  even 
here,  nay,  here  more  conspicuously  than  anywhere  else,  does 
the  inherent  and  ineradicable  craving  of  Faust  for  a life  of 
truly  productive  endeavour  assert  itself.  His  wager  with 
the  devil  is  nothing  but  an  act  of  despair,  and  the  very  fact 
that  he  does  not  hope  anything  from  it  shows  that  he  will 
win  it.  He  knows  that  sensual  enjoyment  will  never  give 
him  satisfaction;  he  knows  that,  as  long  as  he  gives  himself 
up  to  self-gratification,  there  will  never  be  a moment  to 
which  he  would  say:  ‘‘Abide,  thou  art  so  fair  ! From  the 
outset  we  feel  that  by  living  up  to  the  very  terms  of  the 
agreement,  Faust  will  rise  superior  to  it;  that  by  rushing 
into  the  whirlpool  of  earthly  passion  and  experience,  his 
being  will  be  calmed  and  purified.®® 

Fear  not  that  I this  pact  shall  seek  to  sever! 

The  promise  that  I make  to  thee 
Is  just  the  sum  of  my  endeavour. 

Plunge  we  in  Time’s  tumultuous  dance 
In  the  rush  and  roll  of  circumstance! 

Then  may  delight  and  distress 
And  worry  and  success, 

Alternately  follow,  as  best  they  can: 

Restless  activity  proves  the  man! 

My  bosom,  of  its  thirst  for  knowledge  sated, 

Shall  not  henceforth  from  any  pang  be  wrested. 

And  all  of  life  for  all  mankind  created 
Shall  be  within  mine  inmost  being  tested: 

The  highest,  lowest  forms  my  soul  shall  borrow. 

Shall  heap  upon  itself  their  bliss  and  sorrow. 

And  thus  my  own  sole  self  to  all  their  selves  expanded, 

I too,  at  last,  shall  with  them  all  be  stranded! 

I,  1741  ff.  The  last  seven  lines  are  found  already  in  the  Fragment, 


368  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


This  is  a pessimism  which  is  bound  to  lead  in  the  end  to 
the  highest  form  of  optimism,  this  is  an  individualism  which 
must  at  last  develop  into  the  most  exalted  collectivism. 
For  it  would  be  impossible  to  have  such  universal  sympa- 
ihies  as  these  without  giving  expression  to  them  in  a life 
devoted  to  the  common  good  of  man;  and  a life  thus  spent 
cannot  end  in  despair.  The  more  deeply  it  is  tinged  with 
suffering  and  sadness,  the  fuller  and  deeper  its  joys  will  be, 
and  the  more  firmly  will  it  cling  to  ideal  endeavour  as  the 
only  true  reality. 

In  a subsequent  chapter  we  shall  analyze  the  poetic  form 

which  this  joyous  and  all-embracing  idealism  received 

in  the  Second  Part  of  Faust  and  the  other  out- 

Scliiller’s  growths  of  Goethe's  old  age.  For  the  present 
manhood.  , , , 

we  must  return  to  the  last  and  most  mature 

creations  of  Schiller,  and  thus  bring  our  review  of  the  revo- 
lutionary era  to  a close. 

In  the  same  year  with  the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution Schiller  wrung  from  himself  that  magnificent  dithy- 
ramb, The  Artists^  in  which  he  for  the  first  time 
unreservedly  and  without  a remnant  of  the  old 
‘ Sturm  und  Drang  ’ bitterness  unfolded  his  view  of  the 
onward  march  of  human  civilization.  Rousseau's  concep- 
tion of  an  ideal  state  of  nature  is  here  supplanted  by  the 
conception  of  an  ideal  state  of  culture.  The  history  of 
mankind  is  represented  as  an  endless  striving  for  the  perfect 
life;  and  art,  man’s  noblest  and  most  peculiarly  human  en- 
dowment, is  held  up  as  the  greatest  moral  and  intellectual 
agency  of  the  world. 

Only  through  the  morning-gate  of  beauty  goes  the  path- 
way to  the  land  of  knowledge."  Long  before  philosophy 
hazarded  its  dogmas,  an  Iliad  solved  the  riddles  of  fate; 
long  before  science  discovered  the  laws  of  nature,  poets 
and  artists  divined  the  secrets  of  a living  universe.  Art 
freed  the  primitive  man  from  the  tyranny  of  the  senses,  and 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  369 

transformed  the  gloomy  materialism  of  the  savage  into  a 
hopeful  spirituality.®* 

Jetzt  wand  sich  von  dem  Sinnenschlafe 
Die  freie  schdne  Seele  los; 

Durch  euch  entfesselt,  sprang  der  Sklave 
Der  Sorge  in  der  Freude  Schoos. 

Jetzt  fiel  der  Tierheit  dumpfe  Schranke, 

Und  Menschheit  trat  auf  die  entwdlkte  Stirn, 

Und  der  erhabne  Fremdling,  der  Gedanke, 

Sprang  aus  dem  staunenden  Gehirn. 

But  art  stands  not  only  at  the  beginning  of  civilization; 
her  highest  office  lies  in  the  future.  Science,  industry, 
commerce,  social  and  political  activity, — in  short,  all  other 
forms  of  human  endeavour  appeal  only  to  certain  sides  of 
man’s  nature.  Art  alone  requires  the  whole  man,  she  alone 
holds  before  us  a vision  of  our  complete  self.  Science 
criticises,  art  creates;  the  one  dissolves,  the  other  unites. 
It  is  the  mission  of  art  to  lead  modern  humanity,  disorgan- 
ized and  at  war  with  itself,  to  that  inner  harmony  of  which 
primitive  nature  was  an  early  promise,  the  highest  fulfilment 
of  which,  however,  will  be  reached  through  highest  culture. 
Into  your  hands,  then,  O artists,  is  committed  the  dignity 
of  humankind,  with  you  to  sink,  with  you  to  rise.  Heed, 
oh  heed  the  sacred  trust!  Disdain  the  vulgar  and  the  tran- 
sient, keep  your  eyes  fixed  upon  the  mountain  heights  of 
eternal  beauty,  point  out  to  your  fellows  the  ideal  of  a per- 
fect culture  and  thus  lift  them  above  their  own  selves  into 
the  presentiment  of  a better,  though  distant,  future.®® 

Borne  on  your  daring  pinions  soar  sublime 
Above  the  shoal  and  eddy  of  the  time. 

Far  glimmering  on  your  wizard  mirror,  see 
The  silent  shadow  of  the  age  to  be  I 

In  this  poem  we  have  an  epitome  of  all  the  best  and  high- 
est which  Schiller’s  life,  so  prematurely  and  abruptly  to  be 


Sdmmtl.  Sc  hr.  VI,  270. 


Ib.  278.  Bulwer's  trsl. 


370  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


ended,  has  given  to  the  world.  Again  and  again,  in  his 
prose  writings,  in  his  poems,  in  his  dramas,  we  meet  with 
this  idea  of  culture  as  the  source  of  his  finest  inspiration. 

It  was  this  very  conception  of  human  nature  in  its  totality 
which  made  it  impossible  for  Schiller  to  accept  the  Kantian 
view  of  duty  as  necessarily  opposed  to  instinct. 
Not  in  repression,  but  in  cultivation,  of  the  in- 
stinct he  saw  the  truly  moral  conduct.  The 
truest  type  of  manhood  he  saw,  not  in  the  stern  ascetic,  but 
in  what  he  called  “ the  beautiful  soul,”  a definition  of  which 
term  he  undertook  in  the  admirable  little  essay  on  Grace 
and  Dignity  (1793).®^  ‘‘Not  to  perform  individual  moral 
actions,  but  to  be  a moral  being,  is  man’s  destiny.  Virtue, 
not  virtues,  is  his  task;  and  virtue  is  nothing  but  an  instinct 
for  duty.  Nature  herself  by  making  him  a spiritual-sensual 
being,  that  is:  a man,  enjoined  upon  him  not  to  separate 
what  she  united,  even  in  the  purest  manifestations  of  his 
divine  self  not  to  forget  his  sensual  self,  and  to  beware  of 
basing  the  triumph  of  the  one  upon  the  defeat  af  the  other. 
His  moral  character  is  safe  only  when  it  proceeds  from  his 
whole  self  as  the  combined  result  of  both  principles.  The 
defeated  enemy  may  rise  again,  the  reconciled  enemy  is 
truly  conquered.”  Here  we  have  the  constituent  elements 
of  a beautiful  soul.®*  “A  beautiful  soul  we  call  a state 
where  the  moral  sentiment  has  taken  possession  of  all  the 
emotions  to  such  a degree  that  it  may  unhesitatingly  com- 
mit the  guidance  of  life  to  the  instinct  without  running  the 
risk  of  conflicting  with  its  decisions.  A beautiful  soul  has 
no  other  merit  than  that  it  is.  With  an  ease  and  freedom 
as  though  it  acted  only  from  instinct,  it  performs  the  most 
painful  duties  of  life;  and  the  most  heroic  sacrifice  which 
it  obtains  from  the  will  appears  as  a voluntary  offering  of 


**  Sdmmtl.  Schr.  X,  99  f. — Cf.  for  the  following  Kuno  Fischer,  SchiU 
ler-Schriften  III.  IV.  O.  Harnack,  D,  Mass.  Aesthetik  d.  Deutschen, 
H.  V.  Stein,  Beitr.  z.  Aesth.  d.  d.  Klassiker. 

Sd77imtl.  Schr.  X,  103, 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


371 


this  very  will/'  The  highest  culture  has  been  converted 
into  highest  nature. 

In  the  Letters  on  the  u^sthetic  Education  of  Man  (1795) 
Schiller  pursued  this  thought  still  further,  and  undertook  to 
show  that,  under  existing  circumstances  at  least,  Bricfeuber 
completeness  of  character  could  be  reached  diesssthe- 
only  through  striving  for  beauty.  From  the  auto-  x^gdes  ^ ^ 
cratic  governments  of  his  time  he  expected  no-  Menschen. 
thing  ; nay,  he  saw  in  them  the  sworn  enemies  of  genuine 
humanity.®^  ‘‘When  the  state  makes  the  office  the  measure 
of  the  man;  when  it  honours  in  one  of  its  subjects  memory 
alone,  in  another  clerical  sagacity,  in  a third  mechanical 
cleverness  ; when  in  one  case,  indifferent  toward  character, 
it  insists  only  on  knowledge,  in  another  condones  the 
most  flagrant  intellectual  obtuseness  if  accompanied  by 
outward  discipline  and  loyalty — is  it  a wonder  that  in  order 
to  cultivate  the  one  talent  which  brings  honour  and  reward 
all  other  gifts  of  the  mind  are  neglected  ? To  be  sure,  a 
genius  will  rise  above  the  barriers  of  his  profession  ; but 
the  mass  of  mediocre  talents  must  of  necessity  consume 
their  whole  strength  in  their  official  existence.  And  thus 
individual,  concrete  life  is  gradually  being  annihilated  in 
order  that  the  abstract  shadow  of  the  whole  may  drag  out 
its  barren  existence."  The  only  hope  of  the  future,  then, 
lies  in  the  inner  regeneration  of  the  individual,  and  the 
royal  way  toward  this  regeneration  is  aesthetic  culture. 
Man  is  fully  man  only  in  perceiving  or  creating  the  beauti- 
ful. For  beauty  arises  only  from  the  most  complete  and 
harmonious  blending  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  of  matter 
and  form,  of  nature  and  freedom.  Beauty  alone  imparts 
to  man  a truly  social  character.  The  pleasures  of  the 
senses  we  enjoy  merely  as  individuals,  without  the  species, 


Ueber  d.  cesthet.  Erziehung  d.  Mens  chert,  Br.  6;  1.  c.  290. 

Cf.  Br.  27;  /.  c.  382  f.  Cf.  G.  Schmoller,  Schillers  ethischer  u. 
kulturgeschichtl.  Standpunkt  in  his  Zur  Littgesch.  d.  Staats-  und  So- 
cial- Wissensch.  p.  l ff. 


372  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


immanent  in  us,  taking  part  in  them.  Our  sensual  plea- 
sures, therefore,  we  cannot  lift  into  the  sphere  of  the  uni- 
versal. The  pleasures  of  reason  we  enjoy  merely  as  species, 
without  our  individual  self  taking  part  in  them.  Our  intel- 
lectual pleasures,  therefore,  cannot  enter  fully  into  the 
sphere  of  personality.  The  beautiful  alone  we  enjoy  both 
as  individuals  and  as  species,  that  is:  as  representatives  of  the 
species  ; and  the  artist  who  creates,  the  public  who  sympa- 
thetically receive  the  beautiful,  perform  a service  for  society 
far  greater  than  the  so-called  public  services  of  the  average 
diplomat  and  politician.  They  are  workers  for  an  ideal 
society  which,  although  it  may  for  ever  remain  unrealized, 
is  bound  to  exert,  even  as  a mere  postulate,  a cleansing  and 
exalting  influence  upon  society  as  it  is  ; just  as  the  idea  of 
an  invisible  church  has  inspired  far  nobler  movements  and 
brought  about  far  greater  revolutions  in  the  history  of  reli- 
gious life  than  all  ecclesiastical  institutions  taken  together. 

From  the  heights  of  this  conception  of  a complete  human- 
ity Schiller,  in  the  essay  On  Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry 
Uel)er  naive  (1795-96),  reviewed  the  history  of  literature  as 
talisXe^DicM-  expression  of  this  complete  humanity,  deriv- 
nng.  ing  from  this  review  an  additional  proof  for  his 

own  ideal  of  art.  All  poetry  as  we  know  it  is  either  naive 
or  sentimental,  that  is,  reflects  the  harmony  of  life  either  as 
an  existing  condition  or  as  a goal  to  be  striven  for.  Naive 
poetry  corresponds  to  a state  of  society  where  the  harmony 
between  belief  and  reason,  between  the  sensual  and  the 
spiritual,  has  not  yet  been  lost.  This  was  the  case  in  the 
best  time  of  Greek  civilization.®’  “The  entire  social  sys- 
tem of  the  Greeks  was  founded  upon  natural  instinct,  not 
upon  artificial  reflection  ; their  mythology  even  was  the  in- 
spiration of  a naive  feeling,  the  child  of  a joyous  intuition, 
not  the  result  of  brooding  reason,  as  the  religious  belief 
of  modern  nations  is.  In  harmony  with  himself  and  happy 


Ueher  naive  u.  sentimentalische  Dichtung;  L c.  444  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


373 


in  the  consciousness  of  his  full  humanity,  the  Greek  had 
no  incentive  to  go  beyond  himself  except  in  order  to  assimi- 
late the  outer  world  to  his  own  image  ; while  we  moderns, 
at  war  with  ourselves  and  disappointed  in  our  experiences 
of  humanity,  have  no  more  urgent  desire  than  to  flee  from 
ourselves  and  remove  the  disfigured  form  of  mankind  from 
our  sight.”  Modern  poetry,  then,  is  essentially  sentimental, 
that  is:  inspired  with  the  idea  of  a nobler  and  more  com- 
plete life  than  that  which  surrounds  us.  Our  present  age, 
with  its  artificial  class  distinctions,  with  its  predominance 
of  the  intellect  over  sentiment,  with  its  conflict  between 
authority  and  freedom,  with  its  philosophic  doubts  and  its 
moral  problems,  is  far  removed  from  harmony  of  life.  The 
completeness  of  human  nature  as  a living  force  has  no 
place  in  modern  society.  But  all  the  more  deeply  do  we 
long  for  this  completeness  and  rejoice  whenever  we  find  it. 
This  is  the  reason  why  the  creations  of  a naive  genius,  like 
those  of  Homer  or  Shakspere,  move  us  so  profoundly.  This 
is  the  reason  why  we  delight  in  the  unconscious  wisdom  of 
childish  play.  This  is  at  the  bottom  of  our  feeling  for  the 
simplest  objects  of  nature,  a flower,  a spring,  a mossy  rock.®® 
‘‘  It  is  not  these  objects,  it  is  the  idea  manifested  in  them 
which  we  love.  AVe  love  in  them  the  quietly  creating  life, 
the  calm  working  from  within,  the  existence  according  to 
one’s  own  law,  the  inner  necessity,  the  constant  harmony 
with  one’s  own  self.  They  are  what  we  were  ; they  are  what 
we  are  bound  to  be  again.  We  were  nature  like  them,  and 
our  culture  by  way  of  reason  and  freedom  is  to  bring  us 
back  to  nature.  They  are  therefore,  on  the  one  hand,  a 
symbol  of  our  lost  childhood,  which  will  be  for  ever  the 
most  precious  memory  to  us  ; on  the  other  hand,  they  are 
symbols  of  our  highest  perfection,  which  lies  before  us  as 
the  ideal  of  the  future,”  and  the  way  toward  which  it  is  the 
most  sacred  office  of  poetry  and  art  to  point  out. 


Ueber  naive  u.  sentunentalische  Dichtung;  1.  c,  426  f. 


374  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Let  us  now  see  how  Schiller’s  own  poetic  works,  so  far  as 
they  belong  to  the  period  of  his  highest  maturity, — the  last 
ten  years  of  his  life, — have  fulfilled  the  mission  formulated 
in  his  theoretical  writings  ; let  us  see  how  far  they  are 
symbols  of  a complete  existence,  in  what  manner  they 
point  toward  the  reconciliation  of  nature  and  culture,  of 
matter  and  spirit,  of  fate  and  freedom. 

In  point  of  time,  his  lyric  and  ballad  poetry  stands  nearest 
Difference  prose  essays.  Here  perhaps  more  clearly 

between  than  anywhere  else  do  we  see  the  difference  be- 
SchmL’s^^^  tween  his  genius  and  that  of  Goethe.  Goethe,  to 
lyrics.  adopt  Schiller’s  own  phraseology,  was  essentially 

a naive  poet  ; while  he  himself  was  essentially  sentimental. 
Goethe,  although  in  closest  contact  with  the  manifold  pro- 
blems of  a philosophic  age  and  although  incessantly  at  work 
in  building  out  and  adding  to  the  ‘‘  pyramid  of  his  exist- 
ence,” always  retained  the  inner  harmony  with  himself  and 
the  world.  His  lyrics  and  ballads,  therefore,  as  the  most 
immediate  outpourings  of  his  inner  self,  are  like  the  naive 
strains  of  popular  song,  unconscious  revelations  of  an  un- 
broken existence.  Heine’s  saying®®:  “ Nature  wished  to 
know  how  she  looked,  and  she  created  Goethe,”  is  perhaps 
truer  of  this  part  of  his  activity  than  of  any  other.  Whether 
in  the  rhythmic  tumult  of  the  Promethean  rhapsodies  of  his 
youth,  or  the  measured  melody  of  songs  replete  with  the 
full  midday  glow  of  self-possessed  manhood,  or  the  sibyl- 
line wisdom  of  epigrammatic  verse  reflecting  a divine  old 
age;  whether  in  the  simple  true-heartedness  of  the  Ko?iig 
in  l^hule^  or  the  healthy  sensuousness  of  the  Romische  Ele- 
gieen,  or  the  mysterious  depth  of  the  songs  of  Mignon  and 
the  Harper,  or  again  in  the  magic  lifelikeness  of  such 
visions  as  Eer  Fischer^  Erlkonig.,  Zueignung — everywhere 
we  see  the  welling  up  of  a great  soul,  drawing  its  stream  of 


Reis ebilder  III,  26;  Werke  ed.  Elster  III,  265.  Cf.  V.  Hehn, 
Gedanken  fiber  Goethe  I,  281  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


375 


life  from  the  deepest  recesses  of  elemental  instinct,  and 
pouring  it  forth  with  effortless  abundance.  Not  so  with 
Schiller.  With  him  everything  bears  the  stamp  of  con- 
scious endeavour,  of  moral  purpose.  What  lends  to  his 
verse  such  an  irresistible  power  is  not  so  much  the  wealth 
of  imagination  or  the  inner  affinity  with  life  in  all  its  forms 
— in  both  respects  he  was  far  inferior  to  Goethe:  it  is  the  con* 
centrated  energy  of  a mind  craving  to  bridge  the  chasm  be- 
tween idea  and  reality,  bent  on  restoring  to  humanity  its 
lost  equilibrium,  inspired  with  the  idea  of  moral  freedom. 
Among  his  ballads  there  is  hardly  one  which  does  not  repre- 
sent in  one  way  or  another  the  conflict  between  the  lower 
and  higher  in  man,  and  which  does  not  call  upon  the  will 
to  assert  itself  against  the  force  of  circumstance.  Here  is 
the  source  of  the  fiery  eloquence,  the — one  might  say — 
martial  sonorousness  that  pervades  these  poems.  ‘‘'Tis 
mind  that  shapes  the  body  to  itself  ” (Es  ist  der  Geist  der 
sich  den  Korper  baut ) — this  is  what  all  of  them  proclaim; 

whether  they  exalt  the  struggle  of  man  with  the  elements, 
as  Der  Taucher ; or  victory  over  self,  as  Der  Ka77ipf  77iit 
deTTi  DracheTi ; or  faithfulness  unto  death,  as  Die  Biirg- 
schaftj  whether  they  give  impressive  pictures  of  national 
exploits  and  triumphs,  as  in  Das  Siegesfesi ; or  whether, 
like  Kassandra^  Der  Rmg  des  Folykrates^  Die  KraTiiche  des 
Ibykus^  they  reveal  the  mysterious  working  of  the  world- 
spirit  in  the  forebodings  and  catastrophes  of  the  human 
breast.  The  same  is  true,  perhaps  even  more  emphatically 
so,  of  Schiller’s  lyric  and  didactic  poetry.  Here  more 
clearly  than  anywhere  else  do  we  notice  the  absence  in  him 
of  that  childlike  simplicity  and  sensuousness  which  is  the 
sign  of  the  highest  poetic  genius.  But  we  also  feel  (what 
Beethoven  must  have  felt  when  the  Hy'mn  to  Joy  inspired 
him  to  one  of  his  sublimest  symphonic  achievements)  that 
there  is  a strength  of  spiritual  vision  even  in  the  most 


100  Wallensteins  Tod  111,  13;  Sdmmtl,  Schr.  XII,  295. 


3/6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

abstruse  and  esoteric  of  Schiller’s  conceptions  which  give 
to  them  a moral  suggestiveness  and  perspective  such  as  is 
to  be  found  only  in  the  work  of  the  few  great  men  destined 
to  be  leaders  of  mankind  toward  the  ideal  life.  Not  to 
dwell  upon  the  Song  of  the  Bell,,  the  popular  ring  and 
healthy  common-sense  of  which  appeal  even  to  the  most 
unsophisticated,  while  its  noble  symbolism  reveals  to  the 
more  searching  mind  the  deeper  significance  and  relation- 
ship of  all  outer  phenomena, — what  a wonderful  power  of 
giving  bodily  form  to  abstract  philosophical  ideas  there  is 
in  such  poems  as  Das  Ideal  und  das  Leben  or  Der  Spazier- 
gan^  ! 

Well  might  Schiller  write  in  sending  the  former  to  his 
friend  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt^"^ : When  you  receive  this 

letter  put  aside  all  that  is  profane,  and  read 

Das  Ideal  und  poem  in  consecrated  stillness.”  For  it  is 

das  Leben.  ^ 

a consecration  song  of  noblest  humanity,  an  im- 
perishable symbol  of  ever  active,  ever  hopeful  endeavour. 
There  glows  in  it  the  flame  of  Platonic  enthusiasm  strangely 
mingled  with  Christian  resignation  and  Kantian  rigour;  there 
lives  in  it  the  modern  faith  in  the  attainableness  of  the 
ideal  through  devotion  to  the  needs  of  actual  life.  Life  is 
an  endless  struggle  with  matter;  through  work  only  are  we 
delivered  from  the  slavery  of  the  senses;  only  the  stroke  of 
the  chisel  wakes  from  the  marble  block  a beauteous  form; 
truth  is  discovered  only  through  unremitting  self-surrender; 
the  moral  law  sets  us  tasks  which  seem  almost  too  heavy 
for  our  feeble  shoulders.  But  the  very  trials  and  suffer- 
ings of  mankind  bring  out  its  divine  nature  and  insure  its 
ultimate  transition  to  an  existence  of  ideal  harmony  and 
beaut}^,  where  matter  and  form  are  united  and  where  the 
gulf  between  the  human  will  and  the  moral  law  has  been 
bridged.  This  is  the  essential  thought  of  the  poem,  run- 
ning in  manifold  variations  through  its  first  thirteen  stanzas 


Letter  of  Aug.  g,  1795  ; Schillers  Brief e IV,  232. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


377 


and  then,  in  the  last  two,  rising  to  that  magnificent  image 
of  the  apotheosis  of  Heracles,  who,  after  all  the  toil  and 
turmoil  of  his  earthly  career,  at  last  soars  aloft  toward  the 
Olympian  heights,  while  under  him  the  heavy  phantom  of 
life  sinks  and  sinks  and  sinks. 

Froh  des  neuen  ungewohnten  Schwebens, 

Fliesst  er  aufwarts,  und  des  Erdenlebens 
Sch wares  Traumbild  sinkt  und  sinkt  und  sinkt. 

Des  Olympus  Harmonieen  empfangen 
Den  Verklarten  in  Kronions  Saal, 

Und  die  GSttin  mit  den  Rosenwangen 
Reicht  ihm  l^chelnd  den  Pokal. 

In  Der  Spaziergang  Schiller  returned  to  a theme  which 
he  had  treated  before  in  Die  Kilnstler,  But  how  much 
firmer,  how  much  more  personal  and  concrete  is  perSpazier- 
the  treatment  of  this  theme,  the  progress  of  gang, 
human  civilization,  here  than  it  was  in  the  earlier  poem! 
From  the  gloom  of  the  study,  which  to  Schiller  so  often 
was  a sick-room  also,  we  see  the  poet,  restored  to  health  and 
hopefulness,  wander  forth  into  his  beloved  Saale  valley  to 
enjoy  once  more  the  silent  communing  with  nature.  For  a 
time  he  gives  himself  up  to  the  fleeting  impressions  of  the 
moment.  He  greets  the  mountain  with  its  reddish  summit 
bathed  in  the  sunlight,  he  revels  in  the  calm  and  coolness  of 
the  forest,  he  delights  in  the  view  of  the  valley  below  with 
its  winding  river  and  its  hilly  roads.  But  he  would  not  be 
Schiller  if  he  long  contented  himself  with  mere  observa- 

SdmmtL  Sc  hr,  XI,  6i. 

ib,  83  ff. 

I am  not  unaware  of  the  fact  which,  I believe,  Hoffmeister  was 
the  first  to  discover  (cf.  his  Schillers  Leben  III,  95  ff.),  that  there  is  a 
striking  similarity  between  I) er  Spaziergang  SiXvd.  3,  dtscxx^xXon  by  Schil- 
ler of  the  scenery  between  Stuttgart  and  Hohenheim  (cf.  his  essay  Ueber 
den  Gartenkalender  auf  d,  Jahr  ijgs  ; SdmmtL  Schr,  X,  263  f.).  It 
seems,  however,  likely  that  with  these  recollections  of  his  Swabian 
home  there  mingled  in  Schiller’s  mind  the  impressions  of  the  land- 
scape in  the  midst  ©f  which  the  poem  was  written — the  neighbourhood 
of  Jena. 


37S  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

tion.  The  changing  scenes  of  the  landscape  suggest  to  his 
inner  eye  the  change  of  man  in  his  development  from 
primitive  simplicity  to  complex  culture,  and  the  interming- 
ling of  these  inner  visions  of  humanity  with  the  impressions 
received  from  brook  and  meadow  and  forest  constitute  the 
bulk  of  the  poem  and  form  its  supreme  artistic  charm. 
How  simple  the  scenery  is  which  forms  the  background  of 
this  poem!  In  the  distance  the  quaint  little  town  of  Jena 
with  its  crooked  gables  and  its  weather-beaten  church- 
steeple.  Round  about  us  gently  sloping  hills,  leading  up 
to  the  barren  plain  where  only  eleven  years  after  the  writ- 
ing of  these  lines  the  armies  of  Napoleon  were  to  crush  the 
Prussian  state.  At  our  feet  the  gently  flowing  Saale  with 
now  and  then  a raft  gliding  slowly  down  the  stream;  here 
and  there  a pleasant  village  half  hidden  in  the  green;  poplar 
trees  marking  the  line  of  the  highway.  And  there  this  silent 
man  with  the  noble  forehead  and  the  far-away  look  in  his 
eager  eyes  ! what  a world  of  thought  he  harbours  in  his 
brain  ! How  he  revels  in  the  airy  apparitions  which  crowd 
upon  him;  how  he  delights  in  picturing  to  himself  the  inno- 
cence and  happiness  of  mankind  in  its  infancy;  how  he 
takes  part  in  the  quickened  life  and  the  higher  tasks  of 
growing  civilization;  how  he  lives  over  again  the  glorious 
times  of  Thermopylae  and  Salamis;  how  his  cheeks  flush 
with  enthusiasm  as  he  recalls  the  golden  age  of  Greek 
poetry  and  art;  how  his  lips  quiver  with  indignation  at  the 
thought  of  the  vice  and  the  oppression  of  modern  society; 
how  he  bursts  out  into  cries  of  mingled  rejoicing  and  horror 
at  the  colossal  achievements  and  crimes  of  the  French 
Revolution;  and  how  at  last  he  takes  refuge  in  nature, 
the  ever-abiding  and  unchanging,  to  gain  from  her  new 
courage  and  trust  in  the  destiny  of  mankind  ! Here  we 
have  the  noblest  outgrowth  of  German  didactic  verse  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  Here  we  see  again,  as  we  have  seen  so 
many  times  before,  the  inner  wealth,  amid  humble  surround- 
ings, of  German  life  a hundred  years  ago. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


379 


The  most  complete  artistic  expression  of  his  ideals  of  life 
Schiller  reached  in  the  five  great  dramas  which  mark  the 
last  crowning  years  of  his  earthly  career:  Wallenstein  (1798- 
99),  Maria  Stuart  (1800),  Die  Jungfrau  vofi  Orleans  (1801), 
Die  Braut  von  Messina  {1^0  Jj,  Wilhel7?i  Tell  (1804). 

Whoever  has  seen  Wallenstein  performed  as  a whole, 
from  the  first  bustling  scenes  of  the  Camp  to  the  awful 
solemity  of  death  which  surrounds  the  final 
catastrophe,  cannot  help  feeling  that  here  is 
a world  by  itself,  a universe  of  passions,  hopes,  fears,  strug- 
gles, and  aspirations.  Wallenstein  himself  is  undoubtedly 
the  greatest  dramatic  character  of  German  literature,  and 
in  all  European  literature  since  Shakspere  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  his  equal.  How  this  man  looms  up  before  us; 
how  we  at  first  feel  him  as  an  unseen  power  in  the  wild 
unruly  hosts  of  seventeenth-century  soldiery  whom  his  will, 
and  his  will  only,  controls;  how  we  then  see  him  among  his 
generals,  a Caesar  in  reality,  if  not  in  name;  how  act  by  act, 
and  scene  by  scene,  his  figure  expands;  how  his  very 
foibles,  his  dark  ambition,  his  fatalism,  his  treachery, 
nay,  even  his  sullen  reluctance  to  striking  a decisive  blow, 
serve  to  add  a mysterious  grandeur  to  his  figure;  until  we 
hold  our  breath  when  Max  exclaims 

This  kingly  Wallenstein,  whene’er  he  falls 
Will  drag  a world  to  ruin  down  with  him, 

And  as  a ship  that  midway  on  the  ocean 
Takes  fire,  and  shiv’ring  srpings  into  the  air 
And  in  a moment  scatters  between  sea  and  sky 
The  crew  it  bore,  so  will  he  hurry  to  destruction 
All  us  whose  fate  is  joined  with  his; — 


Piccol,  V,  3 ; Sdmmtl.  Schr.  XII,  197  f. — For  Schiller’s  historical 
studies  preceding  Wallenstein  (Ad/all  der  Niederlande  1788,  Gesch.  d. 
y^jdhr.  Krieges  1791-93)  cf.  O.  Brahm,  Schiller  II,  i,  p.  206  ff. — An 
excellent  guide  to  a true  appreciation  of  Schiller’s  dramatic  art  is  L. 
Bellermann’s  Schillers  Dramen : Beiirdge  zti  ihre??i  Verstd7idnis, 
Cf.,  also,  the  brief  but  most  judicious  comments  in  GG.  § 248. 


380  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE, 

all  this  is  wonderfully  conceived  and  carried  out.  But 
more  wonderful  is  the  way  in  which  the  downfall  of  this 
man  appears  from  the  very  first  as  an  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  his  rise,  as  a demand  of  eternal  law  and  justice. 
Not  as  though  the  adversaries  of  Wallenstein  were  repre- 
sentatives of  this  law.  They  are  much  more  treacherous 
and  lawless  than  he.  This  emperor  who,  when  his  empire 
tottered  beneath  him,  turned  to  Wallenstein  for  rescue, 
investing  him  with  a sovereign  power  incompatible  with 
the  duties  of  a subject,  and  who  now  is  trying  to  steal  this 
power  from  him;  this  Octavio,  who,  knowing  that  Wal- 
lenstein trusts  him  implicitly  as  his  bosom  friend,  shadows 
his  every  step  and  betrays  his  most  secret  plans  to  the  im- 
perial court;  these  Isolanis  and  Butlers,  the  creatures  of 
Wallenstein’s  fortune  and  munificence,  who  turn  against  him 
as  soon  as  their  self-interest  is  appealed  to — how  small,  how 
mean  they  appear  compared  with  the  bold  originality  and 
frankness  of  Wallenstein  himself!  how  well  we  understand 
his  contempt  for  this  whole  system  of  sham  legitimacy  when 
he  says^"®: 

* Tis  a foe  invisible 
The  which  I fear— a fearful  enemy, 

Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me, 

By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 

Not  that  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power. 

Makes  known  its  present  being,  that  is  not 
The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 

Oh  no!  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common. 

The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday. 

Whatever  was,  and  evermore  returns. 

Sterling  to-morrow,  for  to-day  ’twas  sterling! 

For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made, 

And  custom  is  his  nurse. 

No,  Wallenstein’s  real  guilt  is  not  his  treason  to  the  em- 
peror, not  his  revolt  against  the  powers  that  be;  nor  is  his 


Wallenst,  Tod  I,  4 ; I,  c,  216  f.  Coleridge’s  trsl. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


381 


death  at  the  hands  of  assassins  his  real  punishment.  All 
this  is  merely  symptomatic.  His  real  guilt  is  that  he  is  a 
traitor  to  himself;  and  his  real  punishment  is  that  he  is 
ruined  through  himself. 

Never  has  the  inherent  Nemesis  that  abides  with  him 
who  through  selfishness  loses  his  selfhood,  been  more  im- 
pressively represented  than  here.  Wallenstein  does  not 
stand  for  any  cause.  Protestantism  and  Catholicism^  the 
two  great  principles  that  stir  his  time,  are  mere  names 
to  him.  The  peace,  the  happiness  of  Germany,  of  which 
he  occasionally  makes  so  much,  are  really  only  a means  to 
him  of  proving  that  he  is  the  man  of  destiny. He  has  no 
true  sympathy  with  men.  They  are  tools  to  him,  nothing 
more.  When  he  speaks  of  friendship,  he  simply  means  de- 
votion to  himself.  He  trusts  Gctavio  blindly,  because  he 
thinks  that  Octavio  cannot  help  serving  him.  He  loves  his 
daughter  because  he  sees  in  her  a pledge  of  his  fortune. 
He  loves  Max  because  he  feels  that  Max  is  rooted  in  his 
own  existence.^”® 

On  me  thou’rt  planted,  I am  thy  Emperor; 

To  obey  me,  to  belong  to  me,  this  is 
Thy  honour,  this  a law  of  nature  to  thee. 

And  if  the  planet,  on  the  which  thou  livest 
And  hast  thy  dwelling,  from  its  orbit  starts. 

It  is  not  in  thy  choice,  whether  or  no 
Thou’lt  follow  it.  Unfelt  it  whirls  thee  onward 
Together  with  its  ring  and  all  its  moons. 

In  short,  this  man  has  sacrificed  his  better  self  to  the 
demon  of  ambition;  he  has  degraded  his  noble  mind  and 
his  great  heart  to  the  service  of  selfish  greed;  instead  of  a 
blessing  he  has  become  a curse  to  his  fellow  men.  And 
now  we  see  how  he  becomes  a curse  to  himself;  how  this 
very  absorption  in  his  own  interests,  this  very  infatuation 


107  Cf.  Wallenst,  Tod  III.  15  ; /.  300  ff. 

Ib.  Ill,  18  ; 1.  c.  311  f. 


382  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

with  the  sense  of  his  own  power,  makes  him,  to  adopt  War- 
der's happy  phrase, the  fool  of  his  fortune. 

Here  is  the  source  of  his  frivolous  play  with  circum- 
stance. Is  not  he  the  maker  of  circumstance  ? Has  he 
not  always  been  able  either  to  accomplish  or  to  leave  un- 
done whatever  he  wished  ? Has  he  not  always  been  able  to 
make  his  choice  among  a multitude  of  possibilities  ? Why, 
then,  should  he  not  entertain  as  a mere  possibility  this  idea 
of  an  alliance  with  the  Swedes  ? It  is  true,  this  alliance 
would  make  him  a traitor  to  the  emperon  But  surely  he  is 
still  far  from  concluding  it;  and  whether  he  is  going  to  con- 
clude it,  that  depends  entirely  upon  his  own  free  will. 
Moreover,  if  it  really  should  come  to  this,  the  success  of 
the  undertaking  would  certainly  obliterate  its  moral  base- 
ness.— Thus  the  frenzied  man  deludes  himself,  not  realizing 
that  he  is  all  the  while  drifting  toward  the  very  thing  which 
he  thinks  he  is  avoiding : the  necessity  of  acting  under  the 
stress  of  circumstance;  not  realizing  that  the  mere  thought 
of  treason  will  force  him  to  commit  treason,  and  to  commit 
it  at  a time  when  it  will  inevitably  bring  disaster  on  his 
own  head. 

Here  is  the  source  of  his  fatalistic  belief  in  the  stars.  Is 
it  not  clear  that  he  has  been  singled  out  by  Fate  to  make 
the  future  of  Europe  ? Is  it  not  clear  that  he  has  been 
endowed  with  a superhuman  insight  into  the  mysterious 
interdependence  of  events  ? Is  it  not  certain  that  he  will 
know,  know  by  intuition,  when  the  right  time  has  come  to 


Karl  Werder,  Vorlesungen  iiber  Schillers  Wallenstein  p.  115. 
Werder,  of  all  critics,  seems  to  me  to  have  most  deeply  entered  into 
the  true  meaning  of  Wallenstein’s  character.  The  connection  between 
Wallenstein’s  exaggerated  sense  of  his  own  power  and  his  fatalistic 
belief  in  the  stars  is  brought  out  by  him  in  so  forcible  a manner  as  to 
make  such  strange  misconceptions  as  the  verdict  of  Hettner  (Gesch. 
d.  d.  Litt.  Ill,  2,  p.  249  : “ Wer  wird  leugnen  dass  durch  diesen  selt- 
sam  fatalistischen  Zug  falsche  Reflexe  auf  Wallensteins  Bild  fallen  ?”) 
impossible  in  the  future. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


383 


reach  out  his  hand  and  pluck  the  fruit  which  is  ripening 
for  him  in  the  garden  of  eternity  ? Thus  this  man  of 
action  becomes  a visionary  and  a somnambulist.  While 
his  enemies  are  undermining  the  very  ground  on  which  he 
stands,  while  his  adherents  beseech  him  to  save  himself  by 
bold  aggression,  he  remains  in  his  solitary  immovableness, 
watching  the  heavens  and  waiting  for  a voice  from  the 
spirit-world. 

Here,  lastly,  is  the  source  of  his  blind  trust  in  the  chief 
instruments  of  his  fall,  Octavio  and  Butler.  Octavio  he 
calls  his  comrade,  his  most  faithful  friend,  but  of  any  true 
intimacy  between  the  two  men  we  see  no  trace.  In  the 
whole  drama,  Octavio  does  not  address  a single  word  to 
Wallenstein,  and  Wallenstein  has  nothing  to  say  to  Octavio, 
except  to  give  him  some  military  instructions."”  It  evi- 
dently does  not  enter  his  mind  that  Octavio  leads  a life  of 
his  own.  What  is  that  to  him  ? To  him  Octavio  is  sim- 
ply his  own  shadow,  his  own  other  seif.  And  why?  Not 
because  he  knows  him;  but  because  Fate  has  given  him  a 
sign  about  this  man,  because  the  World-spirit  has  pointed 
Octavio  out  to  him  as  his  guardian  angel.  And  in  the 
very  scene  which  follows  the  account  of  the  vision  which 
assured  Wallenstein  of  Octavio’s  friendship,  Octavio  hires 
his  murderer  ! 

Still  more  appalling,  and  yet  so  intimately  allied  with 
Wallenstein’s  character,  is  his  blindness  with  regard  to 
Butler.  He  has  committed  a piece  of  infamous  trickery 
against  Butler.  In  order  to  chain  him  all  the  more  closel}/" 
to  himself  and  to  inspire  him  with  undying  hatred  against 
the  emperor,  he  has  brought  upon  his  head  an  undeserved 
and  humiliating  rebuke  from  the  imperial  court.  Butler, 
informed  of  this  treachery  by  Octavio,  is  beside  himself 
with  rage  and  vows  revenge.  The  crisis  has  been  reached, 
Octavio  has  deserted  Wallenstein,  the  army  is  in  revolt. 


“0  PiccoL  II,  7.  Tod  II,  I.  Cf.  Werder  /.  c.  157  ff. 


384  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


even  Max  is  throwing  off  his  allegiance, — only  Butler  re- 
mains, Butler  whom  Wallenstein  has  so  bitterly  offended, 
Butler  whose  presence  means  death.  And  Wallenstein  sus- 
pects nothing  ! He  is  so  completely  wrapt  up  in  his  own 
self,  so  inflated  with  his  own  greatness,  the  very  reverses  of 
fortune  have  so  intoxicated  him  with  himself,  that  not  a 
thought  of  his  guilt  against  this  man  occurs  to  him.  He 
greets  him  with  open  arms,  he  presses  him  to  his  bosom,  he 
tells  him  of  Octavio’s  treachery,  not  knowing  that  his  very 
words  anticipate  the  sinister  thoughts  of  Butler  himself  — 
I leaned  myself  on  him 
As  now  I lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder. 

And  in  the  very  moment  when,  all  love, 

All  confidence,  my  bosom  beats  to  his. 

He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife 
Slowly  into  my  heart. 

Schiller,  in  an  often-quoted  letter  to  Goethe,”^  has  called 
the  Thekla-Max  episode  poetically  the  most  important  part 
of  Wallenstein.  One  cannot  help  feeling  that  in  this  re- 
mark the  critic  Schiller  does  injustice  to  Schiller  the  poet. 
Even  without  the  contrast  with  the  youthful  enthusiasm 
and  idealism  of  the  two  lovers  who,  being  drawn  into 
Wallenstein’s  ruin,  are  physically  crushed,  but  triumph 
morally,  the  one  figure  of  Wallenstein  himself  is  the  most 
superb  poetical  vindication  of  moral  freedom.  Wallenstein 
falls  because  he  sacrifices  his  moral  freedom.  He  sells  his 
spiritual  birthright,  and  he  becomes  a prey  to  circumstance. 
He  is  weighed  down  with  matter.  His  intellectual  and 
moral  vision  is  clouded.  His  life  becomes  a wild,  fantastic, 
maddening  dream,  and  only  the  hand  of  Death  can  awaken 
him  and  restore  him  to  liberty  and  reason. 

TodWl,  10  ; L c.  289  f. 

Letter  of  Nov.  9,  1798  ; Schillers  Brief e V,  459.  Carlyle  in  his 
Life  of  Schiller  takes  a similar  view.  Among  recent  critics,  Eugen 
Klihnemann,  D.  Kantischen  Studien  Schillers  u.  d.  Komposition  d. 
Wallensteiriy  most  strongly  emphasizes  the  moral  importance  of  the 
Thekla-Max  episode.  Cf.  also  Wychgram’s  Schiller. 

That  Schiller  conceived  of  Wallenstein  as  purified  by  death,  is 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


38s 


The  same  central  idea  which  gave  life  to  Wallensteiuy  we 
recognise  as  the  chief  motive  power  in  the  four  noble  dramas 
which  in  wonderfully  quick  succession  followed  this  im- 
pressive picture  of  Napoleonic  greatness  and  littleness. 
Every  one  of  these  dramas,  from  Mary  Stuart  to  Williai7i 
Telly  deals  with  the  conflict  between  matter  and  spirit;  every 
one  of  them  represents  the  struggle  of  man  for  a complete 
existence;  every  one  of  them  holds  before  us  a vision  of 
moral  freedom  and  harmony  attained.  They  are,  as  it  were, 
ideas  that  have  become  flesh.  An  inner  fire  seems  to  have 
kindled  within  them  an  existence  of  their  own  and  to  have 
separated  them  from  the  life  of  common  reality.  And  if 
they  are  sometimes  lacking  in  that  instinctive  sympathy 
with  human  nature  as  it  is,  which  distinguishes  all  of 
Shakspere’s  and  nearly  all  of  Goethe’s  work,  they  compen- 
sate for  this  by  their  splendid  enthusiasm  for  human  nature 
as  it  ought  to  be.  They  are  all  illustrations  of  what 
Schiller  himself  said  in  the  preface  to  The  Bride  of  Mes- 
sinaT^  ‘‘  Art  has  for  its  object  not  merely  to  excite  to  a 
momentary  dream  of  liberty;  its  aim  is  to  make  us  truly 
free.  And  this  it  accomplishes  by  awakening,  exercising, 
and  perfecting  in  us  the  power  of  removing  to  an  objective 
distance  the  world  of  the  senses,  which  otherwise  only 
burdens  us  as  formless  matter  and  presses  us  down  with  a 
brute  influence;  of  transforming  it  into  the  free  working 
of  our  spirit;  and  of  thus  acquiring  a dominion  over  the 
material  world  by  means  of  ideas.” 

In  Maria  Stuart  the  conflict  between  matter  and  spirit 
appears  as  the  struggle,  in  a woman’s  soul,  be- 
tween earthly  passion  and  self-sacrificing  resig-  Stuart 
nation. 

The  plot  of  this  drama  is  determined  by  a double 
motive.  Mary  of  Scotland  has  been  called  before  the 

clear  from  the  poem  Thekla  eine  Geisterstimme ; Sdmmtl.  Schr.  XI, 

373. 

Ueber  d.  Gebr.  d.  Chors  i.  d.  Trag. ; Sdmmtl.  Schr.  XIV,  5. 


386  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

tribunal  of  the  English  parliament,  not  for  any  real  guilt  of 
hers,  but  for  what  her  enemies  make  out  to  be  her  guilt. 
Her  real  guilt  is  her  past.  She  has  lived  in  unbridled 
license.  She  has  instigated  or  at  least  abetted  the  murder 
of  her  husband;  she  has  forced  the  Scotch  parliament  to 
acquit  the  murderer;  she  has  gone  so  far  as  to  accept  the 
murderer  himself  to  her  own  bed  and  board.  But  it  is  not 
for  this  that  she  is  on  trial  before  the  English  parliament. 
She  is  on  trial  because  Elizabeth  wants  to  rid  herself  of  a 
dreaded  rival;  and  all  the  accusations  of  conspiracy  and 
rebellion  brought  against  her  are  empty  pretexts,  trumped 
up  for  the  occasion.  Politically  Mortimer  hits  the  truth 
when  he  says 

Your  undoubted  right 

To  England’s  throne  has  been  your  only  wrong. 

Mary’s  condemnation  is  unquestionably  a judicial  murder, 
not  the  necessary  consequence  of  her  own  actions.  Her 
death  does  not  stand  in  direct  relation  to  her  guilt. 

Far  from  seeing  with  Hettner,^^®  in  this  fact,  a defect  of 
Schiller’s  drama,  we  find  in  it  one  of  its  most  subtle  beau- 
ties. Mary  Stuart  tried  and  condemned  for  the  murder  of 
Darnley,  would  win  from  us  no  sympathy  except  that  ac- 
corded to  a repentant  and  suffering  sinner;  Mary  Stuart 
tried  and  condemned  for  maintaining  her  right  to  the 
throne  of  her  fathers,  is  surrounded  with  all  the  halo  of 
martyrdom.  And  the  very  fact  that  this  martyr  is  at 
the  same  time  a sinner,  that  the  ghost  of  the  past,  al- 
though apparently  pacified,  although  seeming  to  abandon 
his  claim  to  outward  revenge,  reappears  in  her  own  bosom 
and  makes  her  martyrdom  an  expiation  of  early  guilt,  lends 
to  her  character  and  fate  a note  of  genuinely  tragic  irony. 

Here,  then,  as  in  Wallenstem^  we  have  after  all  not  so 
much  a picture  of  man  struggling  with  circumstance,  as  a 


Maria  Stuart  I,  6 ; SdmmtL  Schr.  XII,  422.  Mellish’s  trsl. 
Gesch,  d.  d.  Litt,  III,  2,  /.  298  ff. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  387 

picture  of  man  struggling  with  himself.  It  is  after  all  not 
Elizabeth  nor  Burleigh  nor  the  English  parliament  that 
decide  Mary’s  fate,  but  Mary  herself.  Although  her  death 
warrant  has  been  pronounced  before  the  first  scene  opens, 
although  her  main  attitude  throughout  the  drama  is  one 
of  passive  suffering,  we  are  yet  made  to  feel  that  it  is  her 
character  and  her  actions  which  determine  the  whole  course 
of  events.  And  her  inner  purification,  her  gradual  triumph 
over  her  own  past,  her  final  transfiguration  at  the  approach 
of  death,  form  the  true  essence  and  import  o?  the  tragedy. 

Literature  has  few  characters  of  a pathos  so  subdued 
and  gentle,  yet  at  the  same  time  so  deep  and  true,  as  Schil- 
ler’s Mary  Stuart.  We  see  in  her,  as  it  were,  the  bursting 
forth  of  the  soul  out  of  the  very  depths  of  earthy  passion 
and  gloom. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  drama,  in  spite  of  her  personal 
charm  and  her  queenly  bearing,  there  is  something  stifled, 
something  unfree  about  her.  She  accepts  the  ignominy 
and  the  trials  of  her  imprisonment  as  a just  retribution  for 
her  own  transgressions,  but  in  a frame  of  mind  more  akin 
to  the  dumb  hopelessness  of  one  pursued  by  inexorable 
fate  than  to  the  joyous  resignation  of  a believer.  And  her 
feelings  about  her  own  past  betray  dread  of  revenge  rather 
than  true  repentance."’^ 

Well  I know  him — 

It  is  the  bleeding  Darnley’s  royal  shade, 

Rising  in  anger  from  his  darksome  grave: 

And  never  will  he  make  his  peace  with  me 
Until  the  measure  of  my  woes  be  full. 

Nor  has  she  ceased  to  be  essentially  of  the  world.  She 
implicitly  encourages  the  ambitious  desires  of  Leicester,  she 
enters  into  the  daring  plans  of  Mortimer  for  her  delivery, 
she  does  not  dream  of  renouncing  a tithe  of  her  royal  claims 
and  privileges.  It  is  not  until  the  catastrophe  of  the  third 
act  that  she  looks  Death  clearly  in  the  face. 


Maria  Stuart  I,  4 ; /.  c.  41 1 f. 


388  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

With  a wonderful  insight  into  the  essence  of  tragic 
nemesis,  Schiller  makes  the  messenger  of  doom  appear  in  the 
disguise  of  a new  hope  of  life.  Elizabeth  has  been  prevailed 
upon  to  grant  the  prisoner  an  interview,  not  from  any  feel- 
ing of  mercy,  but  because  she  thinks  that  this  interview  will 
give  her  a chance  for  a personal  humiliation  of  her  hated 
rival.  To  Mary  it  comes  with  the  violent  shock  of  a sud- 
den fulfilment  of  hopes  long  secretly  cherished  but  never 
fully  realized.  The  result  is  that  when  the  meeting  takes 
place  she  is  hardly  able  to  maintain  her  self-control.  She 
had  expected  to  see  a woman  to  whose  heart  she  might 
appeal;  and  she  finds  a haughty  and  implacable  enemy.  In 
vain  does  she  humble  herself  before  her,  in  vain  does  she 
remind  her  of  the  vicissitudes  of  earthly  things,  in  vain  does 
she  plead  for  her  own  life  and  freedom.  The  only  answer 
to  all  this  is  an  arrogant  smile  and  self-sufficient  scorn.  And 
now,  with  that  grand  self-forgetfulness  which  is  the  heri- 
tage of  heroic  natures,  she  flings  all  moderation  to  the  winds, 
she  bursts  forth  into  an  outcry  of  passion  and  rage,  and, 
knowing  that  by  doing  so  she  cuts  the  thread  which  holds 
the  sword  suspended  over  her  own  head,  she  tears  the 
mask  of  virtue  and  legitimacy  from  the  face  of  her  hypo- 
critical adversary.”® 

What  have  you  done  ? She  has  gone  hence  in  wrath  ! 

All  hope  is  over  now! — 

exclaims  the  frightened  Hannah  after  Elizabeth’s  sudden 
departure;  and  Mary  answers  exultantly: 

Gone  hence  in  wrath! 

She  carries  death  within  her  breast!  I know  it. 

Now  I am  happy,  Hannah!  and,  at  last, 

After  whole  years  of  sorrow  and  abasement, 

One  moment  of  victorious  revenge! 

A weight  falls  off  my  heart,  a weight  of  mountains; 

I plunged  the  steel  in  my  oppressor’s  breast! 


Maria  S'uart  III,  5 ; 1.  c,  502  f. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


389 


From  this  time  on  she  is  prepared  for  death.  All  the 
sweetness,  gentleness,  and  greatness  of  her  nature  seems  to 
have  been  brought  to  the  surface  through  this  violent  set- 
ting free  of  her  innermost  feelings.  She  is  a queen  again;  she 
takes  leave  in  the  most  touching  manner  from  her  attendants, 
giving  to  everyone  a word  of  cheer  and  kind  remembrance  ; 
she  forgives  her  enemies  ; she  has  a tender  look  even  for 
the  treacherous  Leicester  ; she  renounces  all  earthly  desires  ; 
she  thanks  God  for  granting  her  to  atone  through  an  un- 
deserved death  for  the  transgressions  of  her  youth  ; and  she 
finds  in  the  Holy  Communion  the  assurance  that  her  trans- 
figured spirit  will  forever  be  joined  with  God.  Thus  her 
death,  like  that  of  a religious  martyr,  ceases  to  be  a passive 
suffering,  it  becomes  an  act  of  free  will,  a triumph  of  the 
soul  over  bodily  limitation. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  a woman,  and  a woman  of  such 
instinctive  feeling  for  the  truly  fine  as  Mme.  de  Stael,  should 
have  called  Maria  Stuart  the  most  touching  and  the  most 
harmonious  of  all  German  tragedies. 

None  of  Schiller’s  dramas  has  met  with  so  much  adverse 
criticism  as  The  Maid  of  Orleans.  Vilmar  deplores  its 
lack  of  sincere  religious  feeling  ; Scherer  thinks  it 
operatic  ; Julian  Schmidt^^^  objects  to  the  miraculous  which 
forms  an  element  of  its  plot;  Hettner^^®  con-  ^ 

. Die  Jung- 

siders  It  a striking  illustration  of  what  he  calls  frauvonOr- 
the  baneful  influence  exerted  upon  Schiller  by 
the  fatalistic  views  of  Attic  tragedy.  Although  most  of 
these  criticisms  are  not  entirely  without  foundation,  it  yet 
remains  true  that  of  all  of  Schiller’s  dramatic  characters 


De  V A llemagne  II,  18.  Gesch.  d.  d.  Nationallitt . p.  428. 

***  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  p.  602.  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  IV,  222. 

Gesch.  d,  d.  Litt.  Ill,  2,  p.  302  ff. — Gervinus,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Dichtg 
V,  564,  speaks  of  the  “ half  hypnotic  heroine  ” as  “ eine  leidige  Auf- 
gabe.’"  Similarly  H.  H.  Boyesen  in  his  Goethe  and  Schiller.  More 
sympathetic  is  G.  A.  Heinrich,  in  his  Histoire  de  la  Litt^rature  Alle- 
mande  III, 


390  SOCIAL  FOLCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

none  is  a more  perfect  poetic  symbol  of  his  noblest  aspira- 
tions than  this  God-inspired  maiden  who  in  the  conflict 
between  a divinely  ordained  mission  and  the  instincts  of 
her  own  human  heart  falls,  suffers,  regains  herself,  and 
is  finally  glorified.  And  those  who  blame  the  poet  for  not 
having  represented  Jeanne  d'Arc  as  the  ignorant  peasant  girl 
which  she  probably  was,  or  as  the  spiritualistic  fanatic 
whom  Bastien  le  Page’s  painting  so  wonderfully  portrays 
simply  prove  thereby  their  own  incapacity  or  unwillingness, 
to  enter  into  the  true  spirit  of  Schiller’s  creation/^^ 

Die  Jungfrau  von  Orleans^  as  Baumgart  has  well  ex- 
pressed it,  is  the  tragedy  of  moral  idealism.  No  ideal 
achievement  has  ever  been  attained  for  which  its  author 
was  not  made  to  suffer.  Whatever  the  cause: — be  it  the 
indifference  of  the  masses,  or  the  estrangement  from  those 
dearest  to  his  heart  ; be  it  open  hostility  and  persecution 
by  the  prejudiced  and  the  unbelievers,  or  the  agony  of  self- 
reproach  and  misgiving  in  his  own  worthiness  ; or  be  it 
the  separation  from  the  ordinary,  instinctive  life  of  mankind 
which  is  demanded  of  those  who  live  in  the  spirit — the 
path  of  the  idealist  is  bound  to  be  companionless  and  lonely. 
All  these  causes  work  together  to  determine  the  fate  of 
Schiller’s  Johanna.  She  grows  up  a dutiful  daughter  and  a 
loving  sister,  yet  at  heart  a stranger  to  her  own  kin,  shy, 
wrapt  up  in  herself,  a solitary  rambler  in  forest  and  glen* 
The  townsfolk  gossip  about  her  vagaries;  her  father  suspects 
her  of  communion  with  evil  spirits  ; only  Raimond,  her 
lover,  though  yearning  in  vain  for  a response  to  his  feelings, 
divines  in  her  a prophetess. 

From  the  deep  vale,  with  silent  wonder,  oft 
I mark  her,  when,  upon  a lofty  hill 

This  is  especially  true  of  the  peremptory  criticism  indulged  in 
by  Nevinson,  Life  of  Schiller  p,  i6o. 

Euphorion  I,  120. 

Jungfr.  V.  Orl.f  Frol.  2 ; Sanimtl.  Schr.  XIII,  174  f.  Miss  Swam 
wick's  trsl. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


391 


Surrounded  by  her  flock,  erect  she  stands 
With  noble  port,  and  bends  her  earnest  gaze 
Down  on  the  small  domains  of  earth.  To  me 
She  looketh  then  as  if  from  other  times 
She  came,  foreboding  things  of  import  high. 

Now  there  comes  to  her  a divine  call.  She  is  to  raise  the 
banner  of  the  Bourbons  trampled  in  the  dust,  she  is  to  bring 
succour  to  beleaguered  Orleans,  to  conduct  the  king  to  his 
coronation  in  Rheims  cathedral,  to  free  the  soil  of  France 
from  the  detested  English.  But  for  herself  she  is  to  re- 
nounce all  tender  hopes  and  womanly  instincts.^” 

Thou  in  rude  armour  must  thy  limbs  invest, 

A plate  of  steel  upon  thy  bosom  wear; 

Vain  earthly  love  may  never  stir  thy  breast, 

Nor  passion’s  sinful  glow  be  kindled  there. 

Ne’er  with  the  bride-wreath  shall  thy  locks  be  dress’d. 

Nor  on  thy  bosom  bloom  an  infant  fair; 

But  war’s  triumphant  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Thy  martial  fame  all  women’s  shall  outshine. 

She  follows  the  call,  the  shepherdess  becomes  a Valkyrie. 
Her  appearance  inspires  the  army  with  new  courage.  Vic- 
tory after  victory  marks  her  path,  the  court  and  the  church 
vie  with  each  other  in  extolling  her  services,  France  hails 
her  as  her  saviour.  But  as  before  in  her  humility,  so  now 
in  her  greatness  she  is  lonely.  The  feeble-hearted  king  and 
his  sentimental  mistress,  the  venerable  but  impersonal  arch- 
bishop, the  gallant  but  worldly-minded  knights  who  make 
up  the  royal  retinue — they  all  follow  her  lead,  they  are  all 
carried  away  by  her,  but  they  are  far  from  understanding 
her,  they  cannot  enter  into  the  mystery  of  her  mission. 
And  now  she  sees  a pair  of  eyes  which  seem  to  look  into 
her  heart,  which  seem  to  bespeak  an  inner  kinship  with  her 
own  being,  and  she  sees  them  at  the  very  moment  when  she 
is  about  to  strike  a blow  which  would  close  these  eyes  for 
ever, — is  it  a wonder  that  the  sword  should  become  powerless 


Jungfr.  V,  Orl.y  Prol.  4 ; L c,  188. 


392  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

in  her  hand,  that  the  long-suppressed  instinct  for  human 
companionship,  that  the  woman's  impulse  of  surrender  to 
the  beloved  man,  should  awake  in  her  with  flashlike  sudden- 
ness ? 

She  has  broken  her  vow,  she  has  opened  her  heart  to 
love.  At  the  very  height  of  her  glory,  in  the  midst  of  the 
coronation  festivities  at  Rheims,  at  the  goal  of  her  warlike 
career,  she  suffers  the  anguish  of  a guilty  conscience.^^® 

What!  I permit  a human  form 
To  haunt  my  bosom’s  sacred  cell? 

And  there,  where  heavenly  radiance  shone, 

Doth  earthly  love  presume  to  dwell  ? 

The  saviour  of  my  country,  I, 

The  warrior  of  God  most  high, 

Burn  for  my  country’s  foeman  ? Dare  I name 
Heaven’s  holy  light,  nor  feel  o’erwhelm’d  with  shame? 

While  she  is  thus  despairing  of  her  own  worthiness  and 
in  vain  is  trying  to  flee  away  from  herself,  she  suddenly  sees 
in  the  midst  of  the  jubilant  multitude  the  sad  and  solemn 
face  of  her  father.  The  very  triumphs  and  honours  of  his 
daughter  have  convinced  him  more  firmly  than  ever  that 
she  is  in  alliance  with  the  evil  one.  He  has  come  to  redeem 
her  soul,  even  though  her  mortal  part  should  die.  In  the 
name  of  the  Trinity,  in  the  presence  of  those  who  have 
witnessed  her  miraculous  career,  he  challenges  her  to  answer 
him*^*: 

Belong’st  thou  to  the  pure  and  holy  ones  ? 

And  Johanna  remains  silent. 

From  here  on  begins  her  inner  purification.  The  maid 
of  Orleans  has  now  become  the  witch  of  Orleans,  scorned 
and  detested  by  the  very  people  whom  she  saved  from 
destruction.  Homeless  and  friendless,  except  for  the  tender 
companionship  of  the  faithful  Raimond,  she  wanders  about 
in  misery  and  need  until  she  falls  into  the  hands  of  the 
English.  But  like  Wallenstein  and  Mary  Stuart  she,  also. 


Jungfr,  V,  Orl.  IV,  \ \ 1.  c,  284. 


Ib.  IV,  II  ; /.  c.  305. 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


393 


regains  through  this  very  trial  the  lost  harmony  with  herself. 
She  overcomes  the  sinful  inclinations  for  the  enemy  of  her 
country;  she  rises  to  a sublime  trust  in  divine  dispensation; 
she  reaches  that  state  of  absolute  certainty  of  herself  which, 
we  remember, was  Schiller’s  definition  of  a beautiful  soul: 
her  moral  feeling  ‘‘has  taken  hold  of  her  instinct  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  may  commit  the  guidance  of  the  will  to  the 
instinct  without  running  the  risk  of  conflicting  with  its  de- 
cisions.” She  has  again  what  she  had  in  the  beginning  : 
undivided  feeling,  unreflective  impulse;  and  she  has  it  in  a 
much  deeper  sense  than  ever  before,  not  as  a mere  natural 
gift,  but  as  a moral  acquisition.  And  now  there  comes 
back  to  her  the  miraculous  power  over  matter  which  she 
had  lost  when  she  lost  faith  in  herself.  She  breaks  the 
chains  into  which  the  English  have  thrown  her,  she  rushes 
upon  the  battlefield,  she  seals  the  triumph  of  her  country’s 
cause  by  a glorious  death. 

Indeed,  he  who  does  not  feel  that  in  this  character,  in 
spite  of  its  mediaeval  and  mythical  setting,  Schiller  has 
embodied  ideas  which  affect  the  highest  moral  problems  of 
our  own  modern  life — for  him  Schiller  has  not  written.^®* 

In  neither  of  the  two  weighty  dramas  which  stand  at  the 
end  of  Schiller’s  career.  Die  Brautvon  Messina  and  Wilhelm 
Tell^  is  there  a character  of  such  all-absorbing  and  central 
interest  as  are  Wallenstein,  Mary  Stuart,  and  the  shepherdess 
of  Dom  Remi.  They  both  show  us  masses  in  action,  the 
former  a royal  house  battling  with  fate,  the  latter  a peasant 
people  vindicating  its  ancient  freedom. 

No  better  illustration  of  the  inadequacy  of  merely  formal 
criticism  can  be  imagined  than  Hettner’s  characterization^” 
of  The  Bride  of  Messina  as  “ a philological  study 
after  the  antique,  artificial  and  bookish.”  So 
indeed  it  may  appear  to  the  learned  critic  whose 
natural  feeling  has  been  blurred  through  excessive  cultiva- 


Cf.  supra  p.  370. 

L.  c.  Ill,  2,/.  319* 


Cf.  Bellermann  /.  c.  II,  287. 


394  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


tion  of  his  literary  sense.  But  what  does  the  unsophisticated 
public  care  whether  in  this  drama  Schiller  has  imitated  the 
Sophoclean  CEdipus  successfully  or  not  ? whether  the  prin- 
cipal characters  act  and  speak  in  a manner  suited  to  their 
mediaeval  surroundings  or  rather  in  the  manner  of  Greek 
heroes  ? whether  it  was  wise  to  have  the  moral  background 
of  the  drama  consist  in  a mixture  of  various  religious  be- 
liefs ? whether  the  introduction  of  a chorus  was  a happy 
innovation  or  not  ? and  whether  this  chorus,  divided  as  it 
is  and  taking  part  for  and  against  the  contesting  protago- 
nists, fulfils  the  same  task  which  the  chorus  of  the  Athenian 
tragedy  fulfils  ? What  is  all  this  to  the  spectator  ? He  sees 
gigantic  Fate  striding  over  the  stage;  he  sees  a wild,  tyran- 
nical race,  burdened  with  ancestral  guilt,  turning  against  its 
own  flesh  and  blood;  both  by  the  attitude  of  the  leading 
characters  and  through  the  prophetic  mouth  of  the  chorus 
which  surrounds  the  drama  like  a living  wall,  separating  it 
from  common  reality  and  guarding  its  poetic  freedom,” 
he  is  made  to  feel  that  the  self-destruction  of  this  race  is 
nothing  accidental,  that  it  is  a divine  visitation,  a judgment 
of  eternal  justice  pronounced  against  usurpation  and  law- 
lessness, that  it  means  the  birth  of  a new  spiritual  order 
out  of  doom  and  death; — and  he  leaves  the  theatre  over- 
powered by  the  sense  of  having  witnessed  a sublime  revela- 
tion of  inspired  genius,  he  feels  what  Goethe  felt  after  the 
first  performance  in  Weimar*®^:  that  through  this  tragedy 
the  stage  has  received  a higher  consecration. 

And  finally  Tell.  Here,  too,  it  is  easy  to  raise  objections 


Scherer,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  p.  608,  shows  in  a striking  manner  that 
the  elements  of  a chorus  are  to  be  found  in  all  of  Schiller’s  dramas. 

Schiller’s  own  words,  Ueber  d.  Gebr.  d.  Chors  ; SdmmtL  Schr. 
XIV,  7. — Cf.  W.  Bormann,  Schiller  als  Dichter  d.  Braut  v.  Messina  ; 
A had.  Blatter  1884  p.  672  ff. 

Cf.  Schiller’s  letter  to  Korner  of  March  28,  1803  ; Schillers  Brief • 
wechsel  mit  Korner  ed.  Goedeke  II,  438. 


^ THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION,  39$ 

of  an  aesthetic  nature.  One  might  point  out  that  Goethe 
was  guided  by  a true  poetic  instinct  when  he  willielm 
thought  the  Tell  legend  with  its  naive,  Herodo-  Tell, 
tean  simplicity  adapted  to  epic  rather  than  dramatic  treat- 
ment.“®  One  might  dwell  on  the  apparent  lack  of  unity  in 
Schiller’s  drama,  the  division  of  the  plot  into  three  separate 
actions:  the  Riitli  episode,  the  Tell  episode,  and  the  Bertha- 
Rudenz  episode.  One  might  wish  that  some  nobler  way 
had  been  found  for  Tell  to  strike  his  blow  against  Gessler 
than  from  out  of  an  ambush,  although  one  would  hardly  be 
satisfied  with  the  summary  proceeding  proposed  by  Borne 
and  by  Prince  Bismarck  — namely,  an  open  assault  upon 
the  tyrant  on  the  village  green  of  Altorf  immediately  follow- 
ing  Gessler’s  savage  attack  against  Tell’s  paternal  feeling. 
One  might  regret  that  the  introduction,  in  the  last  act,  of  an 
entirely  new  and  unexpected  motive — the  assassination  of 
the  emperor  by  Parricida — has  the  effect  of  an  anticlimax. 
But  who  would  not  rather  silence  these  and  similar  objec- 
tions, and  give  himself  up  with  undivided  heart  to  reverent 
delight  in  this  immortal  apotheosis  of  lawful  freedom  ? 

It  seems  as  though  in  this  last  great  work  of  Schiller’s, 
written  while  the  shadow  of  death  was  upon  him,  the  full 
glory  not  only  of  his  own  life,  but  of  this  whole  era  of  in- 
tellectual revolution  and  reconstruction  was  bursting  forth 
once  more  with  concentrated  radiance.  Rousseau’s  repub- 
licanism and  individualism;  the  moral  law  of  Kant;  Her- 


Cf.  Eckermann,  Gespr,  m.  Goethe  III,  Ii6  f. 

137  <<  Naturlicher  und  nobler  ware  es  nach  meinen  Begriffen  gewe- 
sen,  wenn  er  statt  auf  den  Jungen  abzudriicken,  den  doch  der  beste 
Schiitze  statt  des  Apfels  treffen  konnte,  wenn  er  da  lieber  gleich  den 
Landvogt  erschossen  hatte.  Das  wSre  gerechter  Zorn  iiber  eine  grau- 
same  Zumutung  gewesen.  Das  Verstecken  und  Auflauern  gef^llt  mir 
nicht,  das  passt  sich  nicht  fiir  Helden,  nicht  einmal  fiir  Franctireurs  ” 
— a remark  of  Bismarck's  of  Oct.  25,  1870,  quoted  after  Busch  by  Bel- 
lermann  /.  c,  II,  449.  Cf.  Borne,  Ueber  d.  Charakter  d.  With.  Tell ; 
Ges.  Sc  hr,  (1862)  IV,  318. 


39^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


der's,  Goethe’s,  and  Schiller’s  ideal  of  culture, — they  all 
have  entered  into  this  poem  as  constituent  elements.  But 
the  same  process  of  transformation  which  again  and  again 
we  noticed  as  the  leading  tendency  of  this  whole  epoch  we 
find  typified  in  this  poem  also.  The  republicanism  preached 
here  is  not  the  anarchic  republicanism  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, it  is  the  public-spirited  devotion  to  the  common 
weal  practised  by  men  rooted  in  common  tradition  and  be- 
lief. The  individualism  held  out  here  is  not  the  selfish 
individualism  of  the  Storm-and-Stress  period,  it  is  the  self- 
mastery  of  individuals  conscious  of  being  representatives  of 
a whole  people.  The  moral  culture  exhibited  here  is  not 
the  result  of  a conscious  struggle  with  lower  passions,  it  is 
the  instinctive  culture  of  aristocratic  characters — for  every 
one  of  these  Swiss  farmers  appears  as  a born  aristocrat — : 
it  is,  as  it  were,  an  anticipation  of  that  highest  state  of 
human  development  hoped  for  by  Schiller,  where  culture 
and  nature  will  have  become  identical. 

The  land  is  ours;  it  is  our  own  creation! 

By  our  own  labour  those  old  gloomy  forests, 

That  once  were  lairs  for  wolves  and  bears,  were  felled, 

To  make  space  for  our  homesteads;  and  the  brood 
Of  the  old  dragons  that  among  the  swamps 
Lurked,  or,  with  venom  swollen,  issued  forth 
For  prey,  were  all  destroyed;  the  dense,  gray  fogs 
That  hung  o’er  fenny  pastures  were  dispersed; 

The  rocks  were  rent  asunder;  over  chasms 
Were  flung  these  bridges,  to  make  safe  the  way 
For  passengers;  ay,  by  a thousand  claims. 

The  land  is  ours  for  ever! — Shall  we  bear  it 
That  he,  the  creature  of  a foreign  lord, 

Shall  here  insult  us  on  our  own  free  soil? 

Is  there  no  help  for  us?  Must  we  bear  this? — 

No! — there’s  a limit  to  the  tyrant’s  power. 

When  men,  oppressed,  can  find  no  aid  on  earth,  ^ 

To  rid  them  of  their  burden,  then  they  rise; 

The  people  rise;  they  stretch  their  hands  to  heaven, 

And  thence  fetch  down  their  old,  eternal  rights; 


THE  AGE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


397 


Their  rights,  all — like  the  everlasting  lights 
There  shining  in  the  heavens — unchangeable, 

Imperishable  as  the  stars  themselves! — 

Then  nature’s  own  primeval  rule  returns; 

Man  stands  in  battle,  ready  for  the  foe. 

'Tis  our  last  means;  but  when  all  others  fail, 

We  draw  the  sword! — The  best  of  all  life’s  boons 
We  will  defend! — In  front  of  this  our  land 
And  of  our  wives  and  children,  here  we  stand! 

Here/®®  it  seems,  there  speaks  not  an  individual.  Here 
is  heard  the  outcry  of  a whole  century  battling  for  the  resti- 
tution of  popular  freedom  and  lawful  government.  And 
with  it  there  mingle  the  voices  of  other  ages  and  other 
countries,  the  voices  of  the  old  Germanic  freeholders,  of 
mediaeval  burgherdom,  of  Luther,  of  Hampden,  and  of  the 
minute-men  of  Lexington. 

No  more  futile  accusation  has  ever  been  raised  than  the 

assertion  not  infrequent  in  critical  estimates  of  the  classic 

period  of  German  literature,  that  the  great  Ger-  The  great 

man  thinkers  and  poets  were  lacking  in  patriot-  classic  wri- 
^ . . ters  as  public 

ism,  that  they  were  one-sided  cosmopolitans  and  men. 

individualists,  that  they  were  forgetful  of  their  public  tasks 
and  obligations.  All  that  has  been  said  on  the  foregoing 
pages  would  have  been  said  in  vain,  if  it  had  not  imbued 
the  reader  with  the  conviction  that  the  very  reverse  of  these 
charges  is  true.  At  a time  when  the  last  remnants  of  the 
old  Empire  were  being  brushed  away  in  the  shameful  trea- 
ties of  Basel  (1795)  and  Pressburg  (1805);  when  the  military 
honour  of  the  nation  was  being  trampled  into  the  mud  on 
the  battlefields  of  Ulm  and  Austerlitz  (1804);  when  Ger- 
man princes  and  statesmen  were  to  be  seen  in  the  anterooms 
of  French  generals  haggling  for  little  private  advantages  in 
the  midst  of  the  universal  ruin; — at  this  time  the  true  repre- 
sentatives of  public  life  in  Germany  were  the  men  whose 

138  Words  of  Stauffacher  in  the  Riitli  scene,  Tdl  II,  2 ; SdmtntL 
Sckr.  XIV,  328. 


398  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


works  we  have  been  considering.  They  were  the  true  up- 
holders of  national  honour;  they  were  the  true  leaders  from 
the  exaggerated  individualism  of  the  eighteenth  to  the  col- 
lectivism of  the  nineteenth  century;  they  are  the  true  foun- 
ders of  German  unity.  For  they  have  created  the  soul 
which  in  our  own  day  on  the  bloody  fields  of  Gravelotte 
and  Sedan  has  at  last  wrought  for  itself  a body. 

It  seems  fitting  to  close  this  chapter  by  recalling  a remark 

(joetlieasa  of  Goethe’s  which  shows  how  deeply  he  felt  the 

proplietof  service  demanded  from  the  literature  of  his 

national 

greatness.  time  and  how  earnestly  he  strove  to  fulfil  this 
service  himself. 

“ Do  not  believe,  I pray  you,”  he  said  in  a conversation  with 
Professor  Luden  in  1813,^^®  “ that  I am  indifferent  to  the  great 
ideas  of  freedom,  nationality,  country.  No!  These  ideas  are  in 
us;  they  are  a part  of  our  being  and  nobody  can  divest  himself  of 
them.  Germany  I have  warmly  at  heart.  I have  often  felt  a bit- 
ter grief  at  the  thought  of  the  German  people  which  is  so  noble 
individually  and  so  wretched  as  a whole.  A comparison  of  the 
German  people  with  other  nations  gives  us  painful  feelings, 
which  I try  to  overcome  by  all  possible  means;  and  in  science  and 
art  I have  found  the  wings  which  lift  me  above  them;  for  science 
and  art  belong  to  the  world,  and  the  barriers  of  nationality  vanish 
before  them.  But  the  comfort  which  they  afford  is  after  all  only 
a miserable  comfort,  and  does  not  make  up  for  the  proud  con- 
sciousness of  belonging  to  a nation  strong,  respected,  and  feared. 
In  a like  manner,  I am  comforted  by  the  thought  of  Germany’s 
future;  I cling  to  this  belief  as  firmly  as  you.  Yes,  the  German 
people  has  a future.  The  destiny  of  the  Germans  is  not  yet  ful- 
filled. But  the  time,  the  right  time,  no  human  eye  can  foresee, 
nor  can  human  power  hasten  it  on.  To  us  individuals,  mean- 
while, is  it  given,  to  every  one  according  to  his  talents,  his  incli- 
nations, and  his  position,  to  increase,  to  strengthen,  and  to 
spread  national  culture.  Not  only  downward,  but  above  all 
upward;  in  order  that  in  this  respect  at  least  Germany  may  be 
ahead  of  other  nations,  and  that  the  national  spirit,  instead  of 
being  stifled  and  discouraged,  may  be  kept  alive  and  hopeful  and 
ready  to  rise  in  all  its  might  when  the  day  of  glory  dawns.” 


Goethes  Gesprdche  ed.  W.  von  Biedermann  III,  103  ff. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION 
AND  THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  COL- 
LECTIVISTIC  IDEAL. 

(From  the  Beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  to  the 
Revolution  of  1848.) 

The  creed  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  collectivism.  We 
have  seen  that  this  creed  was  begotten  in  the  eighteenth- 
century.  We  have  followed  its  successive  stages  Collectivism 
of  growth,  in  Winckelmann’s  conception  of  the  cMef  ten- 
Greek  art  as  an  outgrowth  of  Greek  life;  in  ^^ne%e4h^^ 
Lessing’s  view  of  a continuous  development  of  century, 
religious  ideas  throughout  the  ages;  in  Herder’s  vision  of 
the  organic  unity  of  all  mankind;  in  Kant’s  exaltation  of 
the  moral  law;  in  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  ideal  of  a perfect, 
all-embracing  personality.  But  if  collectivism  was  begotten 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  it  was  born  only  in  the  nine- 
teenth. Only  in  this  century  has  it  ripened  into  a principle 
of  its  own,  affecting  national  life  at  large,  revolutionizing 
science,  art,  religion,  politics,  changing  the  mental,  moral, 
and  social  aspect  of  all  Europe. 

The  reorganization  of  political  life  on  a national  instead 
of  a dynastic  basis;  the  introduction  of  universal  military 
service  and  of  universal  suffrage;  the  new  place 
given  to  the  state  as  the  centre  of  all  individual  socially,  im 
endeavour;  the  transition  in  the  industries  from  tellectually. 
the  workshop  of  the  small  independent  craftsman  to  the 
factory  system  of  corporations  employing  and  controlling 
thousands  of  workmen,  and  thence  to  the  supplanting  of 

399 


400  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


these  corporations  by  the  state;  the  enormous  increase  in 
the  means  of  transportation  and  communication  and  the 
corresponding  increase  of  an  international  consensus: — these 
are  the  leading  facts  in  the  political  and  social  history  of 
Europe  in  the  nineteenth  century.  An  equally  radical  and 
momentous  change  is  seen  in  the  intellectual  and  emotional 
atmosphere  of  the  time.  In  science,  both  mental  and  physi- 
cal, a steadily  widening  influence  exercised  by  the  idea  of 
organic  evolution,  whether  this  idea  be  applied  by  a Grimm, 
Hegel,  Ranke,  Alexander  von  Humboldt,  Comte,  Marx, 
Darwin,  or  Spencer;  in  the  religious  life,  a development 
from  the  contemplative  analysis  of  a man  like  Schleier- 
macher  to  the  constructive  criticism  of  a Ferdinand  Baur 
and  a David  Friedrich  Strauss  and  the  practical  Christianity 
of  a Lamennais  or  a Spurgeon;  in  literature  and  art,  a 
transition  from  the  aristocratic  wilfulness  of  a Byron  to 
the  socialistic  ecstasy  of  a Victor  Hugo,  from  the  careful 
adherence  to  line  and  to  the  individual  figure  shown  in 
painters  like  Ingres  or  Cornelius  to  the  broad  treatment 
of  masses  in  which  modern  Realism  is  revelling,  from  the 
worship  of  melody  and  the  human  voice  in  Haydn  and 
Mozart  to  the  worship  of  power  and  orchestral  compact- 
ness in  Beethoven  and  Richard  Wagner. 

What  is  all  this  but  the  manifestation  of  one  great  irre- 
sistible movement,  a movement  which,  we  have  seen,  was 
ideally  anticipated  by  the  great  German  thinkers  and  poets 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  in  our  own  day  has  en- 
tered upon  the  period  of  its  highest  practical  influence, 
and  which  is  destined  to  affect  most  profoundly  the  future 
not  only  of  Europe,  but  of  the  whole  civilized  world — the 
movement  from  individualism  to  collectivism  ? 

It  will  be  the  purpose  of  the  present  chapter  to  trace  the 
Its  manifesta-  beginnings  of  this  development  as  seen  in  German 

^on  in  the  thought,  to  watch  the  last  efforts  and  the  final  ex- 
Romantic  . .... 

movement.  tinction  of  eighteenth-century  individualism,  to 

follow  the  first  steps  of  nineteenth-century  collectivism;  in 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4OI 


Other  words,  to  sketch  the  various  phases  of  Romantic 
literature. 

Romanticism — a most  awkward  and  inadequate  name  for 
a literary,  artistic,  and  philosophical  movement  of  a highly 
composite  character  and  most  diversified  ramifi- 
cations-coincided,  in  point  of  time,  with  the 
deepest  degradation  of  the  German  people  under 
the  Napoleonic  rule,  the  formal  dissolution  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  the  intellectual  and  moral  regeneration  of 
the  Prussian  state,  the  rising  of  the  people  against  the  for- 
eign oppressor,  the  wars  of  liberation,  Napoleon’s  downfall, 
the  attempted  re-establishment  of  a German  federation  on 
a purely  dynastic  basis,  the  political  and  religious  reaction 
of  the  Holy  Alliance,  and  the  beginnings  of  the  liberal 
struggle  for  constitutional  government.* 

The  mere  enumeration  of  these  leading  dates  suffices  to 
illustrate  the  fact  that  the  Romantic  movement  was  born 
and  developed  in  an  epoch  of  most  extraordinary  transfor- 
mations of  the  public  mind.  In  the  beginning  a complete 
breakdown  of  the  old  social  order,  a shattering  of  the  very 
foundations  of  national  existence;  then  a general  revival 
of  common  traditions  and  common  ideals;  next  a mighty 
outburst  of  popular  enthusiasm  and  heroism  in  a great 
effort  to  vindicate  national  independence  and  to  restore 

^ The  time  limits  of  the  Romantic  movement  as  given  here  may 
seem  arbitrary.  Some  will  probably  prefer  to  draw  the  line  with  the 
end  of  the  first  decade  of  the  century,  thus  limiting  the  Romantic  pe- 
riod to  the  reign  of  the  so-called  Romantic  School.  Others  will  ask 
why,  if  Romanticism  is  understood  in  a wider  sense,  men  like  Schef- 
fel,  Wagner,  and  other  modern  Romanticists  should  have  been  ex- 
cluded from  this  chapter.  No  one,  however,  will  fail  to  see  the  unity 
of  the  whole  literary  period  from  1800  to  the  Revolution  of  1848. 
And  the  term  Romanticism  is  used  here  only  as  describing  this  unity 
of  intellectual  tendencies  during  the  time  mentioned.  I cannot  re- 
frain from  saying  in  this  connection  that  the  formation  of  an  inter- 
national league  for  the  suppression  of  the  terms  both  Romanticism 
and  Classicism  would  seem  to  me  a truly  philanthropic  undertaking. 


402  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


national  unity.  Only  too  soon,  however,  there  follows  on 
the  part  of  the  governments  an  attempt  to  rob  the  people 
of  the  well-earned  fruits  of  their  self-sacrificing  patriotism, 
and  on  the  part  of  the  people  a relapse  into  the  old  wavering 
between  theoretical  radicalism  and  practical  submissiveness. 
Again,  as  in  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  a most  precious 
moment  for  the  triumph  of  democracy  is  irretrievably  lost; 
again  a short  May-day  of  noblest  aspirations  and  highest 
hopes  is  succeeded  by  long  years  of  oppression  and  lethargy; 
again  the  seed  of  the  future  is  left  to  ripen  slowly  in  the 
thoughts  of  a few  isolated  men.  Here  we  have,  in  outline, 
the  history  not  only  of  German  politics  from  1800  to  1848, 
but  also  of  German  Romanticism  in  its  erratic  course  from 
entire  moral  disintegration,  through  a brief  but  glorious 
epoch  of  reconstructive  efforts,  to  a dead,  reactionary  quiet- 
ism, which  would  seem  altogether  hopeless,  if  it  did  not 
after  all  contain  in  itself  the  fundamental  elements  of  the 
new  national  life  that  had  been  born  in  the  popular  uprising 
against  Napoleon. 

I.  The  Transition  from  Classicism  to  Romanticism: 
Jean  Paul. 

The  typical  representative  of  German  life  at  the  beginning 
of  the  century  was  a writer  whose  true  greatness  it  is  almost 
Jean  Paul’s  ^possible  for  us  of  the  present  day  fully  to  grasp: 
sense  of  the  Jean  Paul  Richter  (1763-1825).  In  him,  it  seemed, 
infinite.  ideal  of  an  harmonious,  all-embracing  individ- 

uality, which  we  found  to  be  the  main-spring  of  classic  Ger- 
man literature,  had  taken  bodily  form  and  come  to  walk 
among  men.  There  probably  never  was  a poet  who  felt 
more  deeply  and  with  more  personal  ardour  than  Jean  Paul 
the  unity  of  all  life.  His  heart  did  indeed  embrace  the  uni- 
verse. His  loving  eye  lingered  with  the  same  calm  serenity 
upon  the  smallest  and  the  greatest.  To  him  the  dewdrop 
in  truth  reflected  the  world,  because  it  was  to  him  a world 
in  itself.  His  life  was  filled  with  that  profound  and  joyous 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  403 


awe  which  springs  from  a strong  and  abiding  sense  of  the 
infinite,  and  which  is ‘‘man’s  best  part.”  ^ His  creations 
are  tuned,  as  it  were,  to  that  wonderful  rhapsody  on  Death 
which  De  Quincey  has  made  familiar  to  English  ears®: 

“ Once  in  dreams  I saw  a human  being  of  heavenly  intellectual 
faculties,  and  his  aspirations  were  heavenly;  but  he  was  chained 
(methought)  eternally  to  earth.  The  immortal  old  man  had  five 
great  wounds  in  his  happiness — five  worms  that  gnawed  for  ever 
at  his  heart.  He  was  unhappy  in  springtime,  because  that  is 
a season  of  hope,  and  rich  with  phantoms  of  far  happier  days 
than  any  which  this  aceldama  of  earth  can  realize.  He  was  un- 
happy at  the  sound  of  music,  which  dilates  the  heart  of  man  into 
its  whole  capacity  for  the  infinite,  and  he  cried  aloud:  ‘Away, 
away!  Thou  speakest  of  things  which  throughout  my  endless 
life  I have  found  not,  and  shall  not  find!'  He  was  unhappy  at 
the  remembrance  of  earthly  affections  and  dissevered  hearts:  for 
love  is  a plant  which  may  bud  in  this  life,  but  it  must  flower  in 
another.  He  was  unhappy  under  the  glorious  spectacle  of  the 
starry  host,  and  cried  out  for  ever  in  his  heart:  ‘ So  then  I am 

parted  from  you  to  all  eternity  by  an  impassable  abyss;  the  great 
universe  of  suns  is  above,  below,  and  round  about  me,  but  I am 
chained  to  a little  ball  of  dust  and  ashes.'  He  was  unhappy 
before  the  great  ideas  of  virtue,  of  truth,  and  of  God;  because  he 
knew  how  feeble  are  the  approximations  to  them  which  a son  of 
earth  can  make. — But  this  was  a dream.  God  be  thanked  that  in 
reality  there  is  no  such  craving  and  asking  eye  directed  upwards 
to  heaven  to  which  Death  will  not  one  day  bring  an  answer!" 

It  was  this  ever-present  consciousness  of  being  sur- 
rounded by  living  mysteries,  this  Schellingian  belief  in  the 
identity  of  matter  and  spirit,  this  rapturous  feeling  of  one- 
ness with  the  soul  of  the  universe,  which  have  made  Jean 
Paul  one  of  the  great  nature-painters  of  the  woild. 

His  landscapes  impress  us  as  though  the  fantastic  colours 

® Faust  II,  1660. — Cf.  Jean  Paul's  Ddmmerungen  ; Werke  Hempel 
XXV,  21 : “ Vor  dem  hdchsten  Auge  muss  das  Kleinste  wieder  ein 
Grdsstes  und  All  sein,  und  die  Unendlichkeit  der  Teilbarkeit  ist  eine 
des  Wertes." 

2 Cf.  Thomas  De  Quincey,  Essays  on  Philosophical  Writers  (Boston 
1856)  I,  213. 


404  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


of  a Turner  had  mingled  with  some  deep  strain  of  Wag- 
Jean  Paul  as  music.  As  in  a trance,  our  sight,  our  hear- 

a landscape-  ing,  our  feeling  become  blended.  We  seem  to 
painter.  before  US  not  individual  trees,  rocks,  mea- 

dows, but  one  great  elemental  being,  breathing  in  it  all,  look- 
ing at  us  from  the  dark  of  the  forest,  pressing  upon  us  with 
the  roar  of  the  storm-wind  or  the  song  of  the  nightingale, 
gently  smiling  at  us  from  the  ripple  of  the  waves. 

“A  night  without  equal!” — this  is  his  description  of  a moon-lit 
night  on  the  Bay  of  Naples'* — “The  stars  alone  of  themselves 
illuminated  the  earth,  and  the  milky  way  was  silvery.  An  ave- 
nue of  poplar-trees,  intertwined  with  vine-blossoms,  led  to  the 
magnificent  city.  Everywhere  we  heard  people,  talking  near  by, 
singing  in  the  distance.  Out  of  dark  chestnut  woods,  on  moon- 
lit hills,  the  nightingales  called  one  another.  A poor  sleeping 
maiden,  whom  we  had  taken  in  our  coach,  heard  the  melodies 
even  down  into  her  dream,  and  sang  after  them,  and  then,  when 
she  waked  herself  therewith,  looked  round  bewildered  and  with  a 
sweet  smile,  with  the  whole  melody  and  the  dream  still  in  her 
bosom.  On  a slender  two-wheeled  carriage,  a wagoner,  standing 
on  the  pole  and  singing,  rolled  merrily  by.  Women  were  already 
bearing  in  the  cool  of  the  hour  great  baskets  full  of  flowers  into 
the  city;  in  the  distance,  as  we  passed  along,  whole  paradises  of 
flower-cups  sent  up  their  fragrance;  and  the  heart  and  the  bosom 
drank  in  at  once  the  love-draught  of  the  sweet  air.  The  moon 
had  risen  bright  as  a sun  into  the  high  heaven,  and  the  horizon 
was  gilded  with  stars;  and  in  the  whole  cloudless  sky  stood  the 
dusky  cloud-column  of  Vesuvius,  alone,  in  the  east.  Far  into  the 
night,  after  two  o’clock,  we  rolled  in  and  through  the  long  city  of 
splendour,  wherein  the  living  day  still  bloomed  on.  Gay  people 
filled  the  streets;  the  balconies  sent  each  other  songs;  on  the 
roofs  bloomed  flowers  and  trees  between  lamps,  and  the  little 
bells  of  the  hours  prolonged  the  day;  and  the  moon  seemed  to 
give  warmth.  Only  now  and  then  a man  lay  sleeping  between 
the  colonnades,  as  if  he  were  taking  his  noon  siesta.  The  sea 
slept,  the  earth  seemed  awake.  In  the  fleeting  glimmer  (the 
moon  was  already  sinking  towards  Posilippo)  I looked  up  over 
this  divine  frontier  city  of  the  world  of  waters,  over  this  rising 
mountain  of  palaces,  to  where  the  lofty  Castle  of  St.  Elmo  looks, 


4 Tiian,  log  Zykd  ; Werke  XVIII,  513  ff.  Brook’s  trsl. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  405 


white,  out  of  a green  bower.  With  two  arms  the  earth  embraced 
the  lovely  sea;  on  her  right,  on  Posilippo,  she  bore  blooming  vine- 
hills  far  out  into  the  waves,  and  on  the  left  she  held  cities,  and 
spanned  round  its  waters  and  its  ships,  and  drew  them  to  her 
breast.  Like  a Sphinx  lay  the  jagged  Capri  darkly  on  the  hori- 
zon in  the  water,  and  guarded  the  gates  of  the  bay.  Behind  the 
city  the  volcano  smoked  in  the  ether,  and  at  times  sparks  played 
between  the  stars. 

“ Now  the  moon  sank  down  behind  the  elms  of  Posilippo, — the 
city  grew  dark, — the  din  of  the  night  died  away, — fishermen  disem- 
barked, put  out  their  torches,  and  laid  themselves  down  on  the  bank, 
— the  earth  seemed  to  sink  to  sleep,  but  the  sea  woke  up.  A wind 
from  the  coast  of  Sorrento  ruffled  the  still  waves;  more  brightly 
gleamed  Sorrento’s  sickle  with  the  reflection  at  once  of  the  moon 
and  of  morning,  like  silver  meadows;  the  smoke-column  of  Vesu- 
vius had  blown  away,  and  from  the  fire-mountain  streamed  a long, 
clear  morning-redness  over  the  coasts  as  over  a strange  world.” 

The  same  depth  of  feeling,  the  same  universality  of  view, 
the  same  divinatory  insight  into  the  hidden  life,  which  we 
find  in  Jean  Paul’s  pictures  of  nature  character-  Asagenre- 
ize  him  as  a genre-painter  and  as  a humorist.  painter. 

In  such  figures  as  Wuz,  as  Quintus  Fixlein,  as  Siebenkas 
and  his  friend  Leibgeber,  as  Dr.  Katzenberger  and  others, 
German  life,  domestic  and  civil,  of  a hundred  years  ago 
stands  before  us  with  all  its  charms  and  all  its  foibles,  its 
innocence  and  its  absurdity,  its  pedantry  and  its  freedom, 
its  awkwardness  and  its  originality,  its  outer  limitations 
and  its  inner  wealth.  No  better  illustration  could  be 
imagined  than  these  characters  afford  of  what  Goethe  said 
in  1808  to  Chancellor  von  Muller ‘‘Germany  as  a whole 
is  nothing,  the  individual  German  is  everything.”  They 
are — to  adopt  a phrase  of  Jean  Paul  himself — if  not  worlds, 
at  least  continents  by  themselves.  They  might  almost 
reconcile  us  to  the  political  misery  of  the  time  which  made 

® Goethes  Unterhaltungen  m.  d.  Kanzlerv.  Muller  Burkhardt  p.  3. 
— For  Lichtenberg  (d.  1799)  and  Hippel  (d.  1796)  Jean  Paul’s  predeces- 
sors in  the  humorous  analysis  of  exceptional  characters  cf.  DNL. 
CXLI. 


4o6  social  forces  in  german  literature, 

it  possible  for  such  perfect  types  of  philistine  idealism — 
may  the  paradox  be  pardoned — to  develop. 

All  these  people  would  be  hopelessly  lost  in  our  own 
time.  Most  of  them  recoil  from  contact  with  society; 
there  is  something  blind  in  their  existence;  they  live,  as  it 
were,  underground.®  And  even  those  who,  like  Katzen- 
berger,  walk  upright  and  with  a firm  step,  are  totally  unable 
to  adapt  themselves  to  their  terrestrial  surroundings.  Their 
idealism  is  often  a caricature  of  idealism.  Poor  Wuz,  who 
has  no  money  to  buy  books,  manages  to  acquire  a ‘‘  library  ” 
by  collecting  titles  of  books  and  supplying  the  text  to  them 
from  his  own  brain.  Fixlein  aspires  to  the  distinction  of 
publishing  a catalogue  raisonne  of  all  the  misprints  to  be 
found  in  German  authors.  Siebenkas  by  his  exclusive  de- 
votion  to  intellectual  pursuits  is  led  to  a most  outrageous 
violation  of  his  duties  toward  his  loving  but  unintellectual 
wife.  Katzenberger  carries  his  enthusiasm  for  the  study  of 
abortions  to  such  an  extent  that  he  almost  feels  it  as  a de- 
scent into  the  commonplace  when  his  wife  gives  birth  to  a 
daughter  of  an  entirely  normal  constitution.  And  yet  what 
an  unbroken  and  inwardly  sound  existence  is  revealed  in 
these  characters  ! What  an  unfailing  instinct  they  have  for 
the  true  values  of  life,  however  awkwardly  it  may  express 
itself  ! In  all  their  childishness  and  perverseness,  how  much 
of  unspent  force  they  are  harbouring  ! Young  Wuz  is  having 
a sorry  time  at  school:  hard  work,  no  relaxation,  and  the 
harshest  treatment.  But  that  does  not  interfere  with  his 
good-humour."^  ‘‘All  day  long  he  rejoiced  about  something 
or  in  prospect  of  something.  ‘ Before  getting  up,’  he  said, 
‘ I enjoy  thinking  of  breakfast,  all  the  morning  of  dinner, 

^ The  hero  of  unsichtbare  Loge  ( Werke  I.  II)  does  indeed  spend 
the  larger  part  of  his  childhood  in  a subterraneous  cavern.  A strik- 
ing illustration  of  the  fact  that  the  mysticism  of  Jean  PauTs  favourite 
characters  was  deeply  rooted  in  the  German  life  of  that  time  is  the 
autobiography  of  Jung-Stilling  (d.  1817;  cf.  DNL.  CXXXVII). 

’ Leben  des  Schulmeisterleins  Maria  IVziz;  Werke  II,  360. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  407 


all  the  afternoon  of  Vesperbrot,  and  in  the  evening  of  sup- 
per— and  thus  Mr.  Wuz  has  always  something  pleasant  to 
think  about.’  ” Fixlein,  with  all  his  pedantry  and  sentimen- 
talism, is  at  bottom  a sterling  character,  a noble  soul;  and 
the  wealth  of  grace  and  poetry  spread  out  over  his  simple 
and  uneventful  career  is  only  the  reflex  of  the  warmth  and 
fulness  of  his  inner  life.  In  idyllic  poetry  or  painting  of 
modern  times  from  Hebei  to  Auerbach,  Knaus,  and  Defreg- 
ger  there  are  few  pictures  which  in  inner  truthfulness  and 
depth  of  character-drawing  can  be  compared  with  the  wed- 
ding of  Fixlein  and  his  beloved  Thiennette.® 

“At  the  sound  of  the  morning  prayer-bell,  the  bridegroom — 
for  the  din  of  preparation  was  disturbing  his  quiet  orison — went 
out  into  the  church-yard,  which  (as  in  many  other  places),  together 
with  the  church,  lay  round  his  mansion  like  a court.  Here,  on 
the  moist  green,  over  whose  closed  flowers  the  church-yard  wall 
was  still  spreading  broad  shadows,  did  his  spirit  cool  itself  from 
the  w’arm  dreams  of  earth.  Here  where  the  white  flat  grave- 
stone of  his  teacher  lay  before  him  like  the  fallen-in  door  on  the 
Janus  Temple  of  life;  here  where  the  little  shrunk  metallic  door 
on  the  grated  cross  of  his  father  uttered  to  him  the  inscriptions 
of  death,  and  the  year  when  his  parent  departed,  and  all  the  ad- 
monitions and  mementos,  graven  on  the  lead; — here,  I say,  his 
mood  grew  softer  and  more  solemn;  and  he  now  lifted  up  by 
heart  his  morning  prayer,  which  usually  he  read;  and  entreated 
God  to  bless  him  in  his  office,  and  to  spare  his  mother’s  life  and 
to  look  with  favour  and  acceptance  on  the  purpose  of  to-day. — 
Then  over  the  graves  he  walked  into  his  fenceless  little  flower- 
garden;  and  here,  composed  and  confident  in  the  divine  keeping, 
he  pressed  the  stalk  of  his  tulips  deeper  into  the  mellow  earth. 

“ But  on  returning  to  the  house,  he  was  met  on  all  hands  by  the 
bell-ringing  and  the  Janizary  music  of  wedding-gladness; — the 
marriage-guests  had  all  thrown  off  their  night-caps,  and  were 
drinking  diligently;  there  was  a clattering,  a cooking,  a frizzling; 
tea  services,  coffee  services,  and  warm-beer  services  were  ad- 
vancing in  succession;  and  plates  full  of  bride-cakes  were  going 
round  like  potter’s  frames  or  cistern-wheels.  The  schoolmaster, 
with  three  young  lads,  was  heard  rehearsing  from  his  own  house 


® Leben  des  Quintus  Fixlein;  Werke  III,  128  ff.  Carlyle’s  trsl. 


4o8  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


an  Arioso^  with  which,  so  soon  as  they  were  perfect,  he  purposed 
to  surprise  his  clerical  superior. — But  now  all  the  arms  of  the 
foaming  joy-streams  rushed  into  one,  when  the  sky-queen  be- 
sprinkled with  blossoms,  the  bride,  descended  upon  earth  in  her 
timid  joy,  full  of  quivering,  humble  love;  when  the  bells  began; 
when  the  procession  set  forth  with  the  whole  village  round 
and  before  it;  when  the  organ,  the  congregation,  the  officiating 
minister  and  the  sparrows  on  the  trees  of  the  church-window, 
struck  louder  and  louder  their  rolling  peals  on  the  drum  of  the 
jubilee  festival.  The  heart  of  the  singing  bridegroom  was  like 
to  leap  from  its  place  for  joy,  ‘ that  on  his  bridal  day  it  was  all  so 
respectable  and  grand.’ — Not  till  the  marriage-benediction  could 
he  pray  a little. 

“ Still  worse  and  louder  grew  the  business  during  dinner,  when 
pastry  work  and  marchpane  devices  were  brought  forward; 
when  glasses  and  slain  fishes  (laid  under  the  napkins  to  frighten 
the  guests)  went  round; — and  when  the  guests  rose,  and  them- 
selves went  round,  and  at  length  danced  round  : for  they  had 
instrumental  music  from  the  city. 

“ One  minute  handed  over  to  the  other  the  sugar-bowl  and 
bottle-case  of  joy:  the  guests  heard  and  saw  less  and  less,  and 
the  villagers  began  to  see  and  hear  more  and  more,  and  towards 
night  they  penetrated  like  a wedge  into  the  open  door, — nay,  two 
youths  ventured  even  into  the  middle  of  the  parsonage  court,  to 
mount  a plank  beam,  and  commence  see-sawing. — Out  of  doors, 
the  gleaming  vapour  of  the  departed  sun  was  encircling  the  earth, 
the  evening  star  was  glittering  over  parsonage  and  church-yard; 
no  one  heeded  it. 

“About  nine  o’clock,  when  the  marriage-guests  had  well-nigh 
forgotten  the  marriage-pair,  and  were  drinking  and  dancing  away 
for  their  own  behoof;  and  when  the  bridegroom  had  in  secret 
pressed  to  his  joy-filled  breast  his  bride  and  his  mother, — he 
went  to  lock  a slice  of  wedding-bread  privily  into  a press,  in  the 
old  superstitious  belief  that  this  residue  would  secure  continu- 
ance of  bread  for  their  whole  married  life.  As  he  returned, 
with  greater  love  for  the  sole  partner  of  his  life,  she  herself  met 
him  with  his  mother  to  deliver  him  in  private  the  bridal  night- 
gown and  bridal  shirt,  as  is  the  ancient  usage.  Many  a counte- 
nance grows  pale  in  violent  emotions,  even  of  joy.  Thiennette’s 
wax  face  was  bleaching  still  whiter  under  the  sunbeams  of  hap- 
piness. O never  fall,  thou  lily  of  heaven,  and  may  four  springs 
instead  of  four  seasons  open  and  shut  thy  flower-bells  to  the 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  409 


sun! — All  the  arms  of  his  soul,  as  he  floated  on  the  sea  of  joy, 
were  quivering  to  clasp  the  soft  warm  heart  of  his  beloved,  to 
encircle  it  gently  and  fast,  and  draw  it  to  his  own.’' 

From  all  that  has  been  said  it  will  have  become  apparent 
why  Jean  Paul  seemed  destined  to  be  the  legitimate  heir  of 
Classicism.  With  his  deep  sense  of  the  grandeur  Jean  PanPs 
of  the  universe,  with  his  reverent  delight  in  all 
existence,  with  his  keen  interest  in  human  soci-  Classicism, 
ety  as  he  saw  it  about  him,  with  his  marvellous  power  of 
microscopic  observation,  and  with  his  all-harmonizing  and 
unifying  humour,  he  seemed  to  be  the  poet  destined  to  give 
a new  expression,  and  a more  real  one  at  that,  to  the  ideal 
of  perfect  manhood  which  had  inspired  the  work  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller. 

That  this  was  indeed  the  vision  hovering  before  Jean 
Paul’s  mind  there  can  be  no  doubt.  His  three  most  im^ 
portant  novels — Hesperus  (1795),  Titan  (1800-1803), 
Flegeljahre  (1804-5) — seem  like  one  sustained  effort  to 
evolve  the  complete  man  from  the  existing  conditions  of 
society;  they  are  all  variations  of  the  Wilhelm  Meister 
theme;  they  are  a part  of  the  universal  eighteenth-cen- 
tury movement  for  the  harmonious  blending  of  all  human 
faculties. 

Never  has  there  been  a more  striking  proof  of  the  futility 

of  individual  culture  without  the  basis  of  a strong  and 

healthy  national  life  than  Jean  Paul’s  failure  to 

become  what  he  seemed  by  nature  destined  to  failure  to 
....  . . . . . accomplisn  it. 

be.  Had  he  lived  in  an  age  of  inspiring  national 

tasks,  had  it  been  given  to  him  to  take  part  in  a powerful 

popular  movement,  had  he  been  forced  into  the  wholesome 

discipline  of  public  duties,  he  would  have  found  that  inner 

equilibrium  which  is  the  indispensable  condition  of  true 

greatness  in  art  as  in  everything  else.  As  it  was,  the  years 

of  his  best  manhood  fell  in  a time  the  whole  ignominy  of 

which  is  contained  in  the  three  words  Basel,  Jena,  Rhein- 

bund;  and,  what  is  worse,  he  lived,  for  the  most  part,  in  the 


410  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATC/RE. 


Stifling  atmosphere  of  frivolous  little  courts,  the  political 
insignificance  of  which  was  on  a level  with  their  indifference 
to  national  honour.  How  could  a man  of  Jean  Paul’s 
temper  and  genius,  under  such  conditions,  become  anything 
but  erratic  and  eccentric  ? How  could  he  help  being  de- 
void of  the  moral  soundness  and  vigour  which  is  the  fruit  of 
individual  talent  exercised  in  the  service  of  a common 
cause®?  Even  Goethe  and  Schiller  were  not  entirely  free 
from  the  foibles  of  an  age  which  seemed  to  have  made 
political  impotence  a permanent  characteristic  of  the  Ger- 
man people.  By  sheer  force  of  character,  by  a steady  ad- 
herence to  what  they  had  come  to  regard  as  the  universally 
human,  they  at  length  rose  superior  to  their  age,  and  thus 
became  the  seed-bearers  of  future  national  greatness.  Jean 

® Jean  Paul’s  personal  character  was  a truly  kaleidoscopic  mixture 
of  genuine  feeling,  true  benevolence,  high-flown  sentimentality,  fickle- 
ness, frivolity,  and  selfishness.  His  love  affairs  are  the  record  of  a 
Werther,  a thrifty  bourgeois,  and  a Don  Juan  combined.  Caro- 
line,’’ he  writes  in  1800  speaking  of  his  engagement  to  a young  lady 
of  unusually  fine  parts  both  of  intellect  and  heart,  ‘‘has  a sterner  and 
more  austere  mind  than  mine  is.  All  the  better  shall  we  supplement 
each  other.  By  my  side  all  that  the  future  may  bring  is  a matter  of 
indifference  to  her.  She  now  devotes  herself  as  eagerly  to  house- 
keeping as  formerly  to  botany  and  astronomy.  I shall  be  sanctified 
through  her  ; I see  the  guidance  of  Providence  in  my  long  circuitous 
road  toward  her.”  A few  weeks  afterwards  he  breaks  the  engage- 
ment, leaving  the  unfortunate  girl  in  anguish  and  despair,  while  he 
himself  revels  in  the  ovations  showered  upon  him  by  Berlin  society, 
especially  the  feminine  part  of  it.  Of  one  of  these  Berlin  admirers  he 
writes  ; “We  have  now  got  to  the  stage  of  holding  hands  with  occa- 
sional light  pressures,”  and  his  philosophy  of  the  future  takes  the 
following  turn  ; “ I must  and  shall  marry  a girl  whose  kith  and  kin 
will  go  into  raptures  over  my  stooping  to  her.  For  some  time, 
however,  I have  included  a dowry  in  my  speculations  ; a wealthy 
countess  or  something  of  that  sort,  I often  think,  may  get  struck  on 
you  ; and  then  you  would  invest  in  a saddle-horse.”  No  wonder  that 
with  all  his  numberless  relations  to  women  Jean  Paul  has  not  produced 
a single  love-song.  Cf.  P.  Nerrlich,  yean  Paul  p,  332  ff.  Julian 
Schmidt,  Gesch,  d.  d,  LUt.  s.  Lessings  Tod^  II,  203  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  4II 


Paul,  although  apparently  striving  after  the  same  ideal, 
remained  what  he  was  in  the  beginning,  an  extreme,  nay, 
a morbid  individualist.  His  real  interest  lay,  not  in  the 
universal  and  the  normal,  but  in  the  exceptional  and  the 
abnormal,  in  the  capricious,  in  the  diseased.  And  thus 
with  all  his  wealth  of  feeling,  with  all  his  patriotic  senti- 
ment, with  all  his  liberalism,  with  all  his  love  of  mankind, 
he  was  a destroyer  rather  than  an  upbuilder.  Instead  of 
the  fulfiller  of  Classicism,  he  came  to  be  the  forerunner  of 
Romanticism. 

It  is  indeed  well-nigh  impossible  for  the  modern  reader 
to  find  his  way  through  the  labyrinthine  tangle  of  Jean 
Paul’s  imagination.  These  enchanted  forests  of  , p , 
wild  adventure  and  mysterious  chance,  these  forerunner  of 
dreary  deserts  of  recondite  learning,  these  gloomy  I^oiiianticism. 
caverns  of  mystic  contemplation,  these  cataracts  of  untamed 
emotion, — how  strange  and  bewildering  it  all  is  ! And 
stranger  still  are  the  men  and  women  whom  we  encounter  in 
this  exotic  world.  Here  and  there  we  are  attracted  by  a pic- 
ture of  primitive  innocence;  now  and  then  we  look  into  an 
eye  full  of  divine  fire.  We  meet  good-natured  dreamers 
like  Gottwalt  in  the  Flegeljahre  who,  if  he  were  nailed  to 
the  cross,  would  try  to  get  one  of  his  hands  free  in  order 
to  shake  the  hand  of  the  soldier  who  crucified  him”'®! 
We  see  gay  children  of  the  world  like  Gottwalt’s  brother 
Vult,  strolling  about  with  his  flute,  and  chasing  thought 
away  with  a song  and  a laugh.  We  see  hyper-ideal 
beings  like  the  Hindu  philosopher  Emanuel  in  Hesperus,, 
the  high-priest  of  vegetarianism  and  spiritualism,  or  the 
angelic  Liane  in  Titan,  whose  life  is  a continual  preparation 
for  death,  whose  embrace  suggests  the  folding  of  wings, 
instead  of  arms.  We  see  virtuosos  of  sensibility  such  as 
Victor,  the  hero  of  Hesperus,  who  confesses  of  himself: 

Although  it  is  the  caustic  Goldine  who  thus  speaks  of  Walt,  the 
characterization  is  no  less  true  on  that  account. — Hesperus,  Werke 
Vll-X  ; Titan,  ib.  XV-XXIII  ; Flegeljahre,  ib.  XX-XXIII. 


412  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


‘‘  Give  me  two  days  or  one  night,  and  I will  fall  in  love  with 
whomsoever  you  propose;”  or  Albano,  the  hero  of  Titan^ 
who  would  rather  be  entirely  unhappy  than  not  entirely 
happy.  We  look  into  the  abyss  of  natures  at  war  with 
themselves,  such  as  Schoppe,  the  cynic  disciple  of  Fichte, 
who  in  his  attempt  to  transcend  Fichte,  to  find  delivery 
from  the  Ego,  to  reach  out  into  the  Nothing,  falls  a victim 
to  madness;  or  Roquairol,  the  “ burnt-out  prodigal  of  life, 
for  whom  there  is  no  new  pleasure  and  no  new  truth  left 
and  who  has  no  old  one  entire  and  fresh,”  a veritable  fin  de 
siecle  character  to  whom  even  suicide  has  sufficient  attrac- 
tiveness only  in  the  form  of  a theatrical  sensation.  But 
where,  in  all  this  tropic  exuberance  of  characters  and  situ- 
ations, is  there  a simple,  brave,  clear-headed,  self-possessed 
man^  engaged  in  useful  public  activity  (not  merely  a ficti- 
tious one  like  Albano’s)  and  surrounded  by  a free  and 
sturdy  people  ? The  complete  absence  in  Jean  Paul  of 
such  a conception  as  this  was  unquestionably  less  his  fault 
than  that  of  the  time  which  made  him  what  he  was.  Yet 
during  these  very  years  Schiller  wrote  his  Wallenstein  and 
Wilhelm  Tell. 

II.  The  Disintegration  of  Classicism. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  true  starting-point  of  Ro- 
manticism. German  Romanticism,  in  its  early  stages,  was 
The  social  ^ result  of  political  atrophy  combined  with  high- 
foundations  of  est  literary  culture;  it  was  a consequence  of  the 
Romanticism,  abnormal  condition  in  which  at  the  beginning  of 
the  century  the  intellectual  aristocracy  of  the  nation  found 
itself. 

Through  the  noble  poets  and  thinkers  of  the  older  gene- 
ration the  educated  classes  of  Germany  had  attained  to  such 
a degree  of  philosophic  and  artistic  refinement,  they  had 
acquired  such  a wealth  of  common  ideal  possessions  as  only 
the  few  greatest  epochs  of  history  have  seen.  Naturally, 
this  intenseness  and  universality  of  intellectual  interest 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^3 

served  as  a stimulus  to  an  equally  intense  and  equally  uni- 
versal desire  for  production.  Genius,  as  has  well  been 
said,^®^  was  in  the  air.  But  where  should  this  genius  turn  ? 
What  part  was  there  for  it  to  play?  What  avenues  of  ac- 
tivity were  open  to  it  ? What  opportunity  was  there  for  it 
to  influence  the  life  of  the  people  at  large  ? Astonishing  as 
it  may  seem,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  there  was  no  more 
room  in  Germany  for  genius  now  than  in  the  time  of  Frede- 
rick the  Great,  except  on  the  throne  (where,  however,  it 
did  not  always  show  itself),  and  in  the  ideal  realm  of  litera- 
ture and  art.  Even  now  the  way  toward  national  reform 
and  collective  enterprise  seemed  to  be  hopelessly  blocked. 
Even  now  the  great  intellectual  leaders  of  the  age  were  iso- 
lated individuals  without  any  large  and  compact  following; 
they  were  generals  in  command  of  an  army  in  which  the 
rank  and  file  was  made  up  of  officers  each  of  whom  would 
rather  act  upon  his  own  strategic  notions  than  obey  his 
superior’s  orders. 

In  other  words,  German  classic  literature,  with  all  its 

magnificent  achievements,  lacked  that  firm  foundation  in 

popular  tradition  and  belief  which  is  the  surest  Early  Roman- 

safeguard  of  an  even  and  uninterrupted  intellec-  ticisma  cari- 
° ^ . cature  of  Clas- 

tual  growth.  And  thus,  at  the  very  height  of  its  sicism. 

development,  it  turned  back,  as  it  were,  upon  itself,  and  again 

gave  way  to  that  excessive  and  morbid  craving  for  individual 

liberty  from  which,  in  the  Storm-and- Stress  movement,  it 

had  taken  its  start.  Romanticism  in  its  early  form  was  a 

caricature  of  Classicism;  it  was  individualism  run  mad. 

Nowhere  has  this  spirit  of  fantastic  and  wilful  self- 
assertion  manifested  itself  in  a more  striking  manner  than 
in  the  three  novels  in  which  three  of  the  leading  Romanti- 
cists formulated  their  capricious  creed  at  the  very  time 
when  Goethe  and  Schiller  in  Wilhelm  Meister  and  Wallen- 
stein exalted  self-discipline  and  self-forgetfulness:  Tieck’s 


Cf.  J.  Royce,  The  Spirit  of  Modern  Philosophy  p.  170  ff. 


4H  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


William  Lovell  (1795-96),  Friedrich  Schlegehs  Lucinde 
(1799),  Novalis  s Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  (1799-1800). 

Tieck,  in  later  years,  in  the  preface  to  a second  edition 
of  William  Lovell^  claimed  a positive  moral  and  educa- 
tional purpose  for  this  work  of  his  youth.  “ My 
TiecksWill-  youth,”  he  says,^^  ‘‘fell  in  those  times  when  not 
only  in  Germany,  but  in  the  greater  part  of  the 
civilized  world,  the  sense  for  the  beautiful,  the  sublime,  and 
the  mysterious  seemed  to  have  sunk  to  sleep  or  to  be  dead. 
A shallow  enlightenment,  to  which  the  divine  appeared  as 
an  empty  dream,  ruled  the  day;  indifference  toward  reli- 
gion was  called  freedom  of  thought,  indifference  toward 
country,  cosmopolitanism.  Trivial  popular  observations  had 
taken  the  place  of  philosophy,  and  a morbid  examination  of 
diseased  mental  states  was  heralded  under  the  noble  name 
of  psychology.  ...  In  the  struggle  against  these  predomi- 
nant views,  I sought  to  win  for  myself  a quiet  place,  where 
nature,  art,  and  faith  might  again  be  cultivated;  and  this 
endeavour  led  me  to  hold  up  to  the  opposing  party  [the 
party  of  Enlightenment]  a picture  of  their  own  confusion  and 
spiritual  wantonness  which  would  in  a measure  justify  my 
falling  away  from  it.”  The  degree  of  self-deception  con- 
tained in  these  words  is  truly  astonishing.  It  cannot,  of 
course,  be  denied  that  the  ideal  of  complete  humanity  which 
inspired  the  great  poets  and  thinkers  of  the  classic  period 
was  by  a large  part  of  their  contemporaries  misconstrued  into 
a commonplace  utilitarianism.  Goethe  and  Schiller  them- 
selves, in  the  Xe7iien  (1796),  rose  up  in  their  might  against 
the  platitudes  of  this  sort  of  rationalism.  But  after  all, 
rationalism  of  the  Nicolai  or  Kotzebue  type  was  a com- 
paratively harmless,  though  degenerate,  variety  of  the  true 
rationalism  taught  by  the  men  of  Weimar  and  Konigsberg. 


Tieck’s  Schriften  (1828)  VI,  3 ff. — For  the  following  cf.  R.  Haym, 
D.  roniant.  Schule  p.  41  ff.  G.  Brandes,  D,  romani,  Schule  in 
Deutschl.  p,  61  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NA7T0NAL  RECONSTRUCTION  41$ 

To  Tieck  and  his  friends  it  was  left  to  pervert  it  into  its 
opposite,  the  worship  of  the  absurd. 

Nobody  who  reads  Willia?n  Lovell  without  partisan  bias 
can  escape  the  impression  that  here  we  have  the  involuntary 
confessions  of  a mind  revelling  in  the  abnormal,  given 
over  to  a sickly  delight  in  the  arbitrary  rulings  of  fate,  to- 
tally devoid  of  any  sense  of  common  moral  obligations. 
Whatever  Tieck  may  affirm  to  the  contrary,  it  is  not  enlight- 
enment, but  his  own  distorted  views  of  enlightenment, 
which  he  embodied  in  the  hero  of  this  novel f it  is  his  own 
erratic  self  which  we  hear  in  the  reflections  of  this  talkative 
and  capricious  weakling  whom  an  equally  capricious  though 
methodical  scoundrel  succeeds  in  turning  into  a complete 
profligate  and  criminal. 

William,  in  the  beginning,  reminds  us  of  Wieland’s 
Agathon.  He  is  a youth  of  the  finest  sensibility  and  the 
deepest  feeling;  he  is  secretly  engaged  to  a pure  and  ethe- 
real maiden;  he  believes  in  virtue,  innocence,  and  the  free- 
dom of  the  will.  He  is,  of  course,  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  nature;  with  Rousseau,  he  believes  in  a former  ideal  state 
of  mankind;  with  Schiller  he  scorns  the  pettiness  of  mod- 
ern life  compared  with  that  of  the  Greeks.^^  ^‘Ah,  the 
golden  age  of  the  Muses  has  disappeared  for  ever  ! When 
gods  full  of  tenderness  were  still  walking  on  the  earth, 
when  Beauty  and  Grandeur  clad  in  harmonious  robes  were 
still  dancing  hand  in  hand  on  gay  meadows,  when  the  Hours 
with  golden  key  still  opened  Aurora's  gate,  and  blessing 
Genii  with  horns  of  plenty  hovered  over  a smiling  world  — 
ah!  then  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful  had  not  yet  been 
degraded  to  the  pretty  and  the  alluring.”  This  sounds 
like  an  echo  of  Schiller’s  The  Gods  of  Greece.  The  differ- 
ence is  that  while  Schiller  in  this  sentimental  longing  for  an 
imaginary  state  of  ideal  happiness  found  an  incentive  for  a 
life-long  devotion  to  serious  and  profound  work,  Tieck’s 


William  Lovell  II,  2 ; Sc  hr.  VI,  50. 


4^6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

hero  becomes  through  it  a victim  of  the  first  temptation  that 
presents  itself  to  him  in  the  shape  of  a Parisian  coquette. 

As  may  be  expected,  his  philosophy  of  life  now  takes  a 
materialistic  turn,  thinly  disguised  by  vague  pantheistic 
phrases/^  I pity  the  fools  who  are  for  ever  babbling  about 
the  depravity  of  the  senses.  Blind  wretches,  they  offer 
sacrifices  to  an  impotent  deity,  whose  gifts  cannot  satisfy 
a human  heart.  They  climb  laboriously  over  barren  rocks 
to  find  flowers,  and  heedlessly  pass  by  blooming  meadows. 
No,  I have  pledged  myself  to  the  service  of  a higher  deity, 
before  which  all  living  nature  bows,  which  unites  in  itself 
every  feeling,  which  is  rapture,  love,  everything — for  which 
language  has  no  word,  the  lips  have  no  sound. — Only  in  the 
embraces  of  Louise  have  I come  to  know  what  love  is,  the 
memory  of  Amelia  appears  to  me  now  in  a dim,  misty 
distance.  I never  loved  her.”  Sickening  as  it  is  to  see 
Faust’s  confession  of  faith  thus  degraded  into  an  excuse  for 
stooping  to  the  charms  of  a heartless  adventuress,  this  is 
only  the  preparation  for  things  far  worse.  New  tempta- 
tions as  well  as  occasional  pangs  of  conscience  convince 
William  that  he  needs  a firmer  theoretical  foundation  for 
his  wanton  practice,  and  he  finds  this  foundation  in  a cari- 
cature of  Kantian  transcendentalism.  The  language  in 
which  he  formulates  this  pseudo-Kantianism  is  the  language 
of  Fichte’s  Wisseitschaftslehre  (1794),  stripped  of  its  moral 
enthusiasm  and  perverted  into  fantastic  sophistry.  In  di- 
rectness and  suggestiveness  it  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired.*^ 

Do  I not  walk  through  this  life  as  a somnambulist  ? All 
that  I see  is  only  a phantom  of  my  inner  vision.  I am 
the  fate  which  prevents  the  world  from  crumbling  to  pieces. 
The  world  is  an  empty  desert  in  which  I meet  nothing  but 
myself.  All  things  exist  only  because  I think  them;  virtue 
exists  only  because  I think  it.  Everything  submits  to  my  ca- 
price; every  phenomenon,  every  act,  I can  call  what  it  pleases 


William  Lovell  II,  23  ; /.  c,  95  f. 


Ib,  III,  23  ; /.  c.  177  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^7 

me.  The  world,  animate  and  inanimate,  is  suspended  by  the 
chains  which  my  mind  controls.  My  whole  life  is  a dream 
the  manifold  figures  of  which  are  formed  according  to  my 
will.  I am  the  one  supreme  law  of  all  nature.”  The  cli- 
max of  this  libertinism  is  reached  when  William  learns  that 
his  connection  with  the  angelic  Amelia,  whose  memory  in 
all  his  reckless  dissipations  had  been  the  one  pure  spot  of 
his  soul,  meets  with  the  opposition  of  his  father.  Now  he 
seems  to  have  a justification  for  throwing  her  over  entirely, 
now  he  can  preach  the  emancipation  of  the  flesh  without 
restriction  or  reserve.^^  In  truth,  lust  is  the  great  secret 
of  our  existence.  Poetry,  art,  even  religion,  are  lust  in  dis- 
guise. The  works  of  the  sculptor,  the  figures  of  the  poets, 
the  paintings  before  which  devoutness  kneels,  are  nothing 
but  introductions  to  sensual  enjoyment;  every  melody, 
every  garment  beautifully  thrown,  beckons  us  to  that.  All 
life  is  a wild  tumultuous  dance.  Let  my  wanton  spirit  be 
borne  aloft  by  a noble  bacchantic  rage  that  it  never  again 
may  feel  at  home  in  the  miserable  trifles  of  the  common 
world.” 

The  revolting  story  of  seduction,  murder,  and  highway 
robbery,  which  as  a practical  illustration  of  these  principles 
forms  the  closing  chapter  of  Lovell’s  career,  would  be  of 
little  interest  but  for  the  fact  that  Lovell’s  views  of  life 
coincide,  even  at  this  stage,  with  those  toward  which  Tieck 
himself  and  his  friends  were  gradually  drifting.  They,  like 
Lovell,  began  as  followers  of  Rousseau,  they  as  well  as  he 
passed  in  quick  succession  from  an  overwrought  idealism 
to  a fantastic  sensualism  and  thence  to  open  rebellion 
against  any  kind  of  moral  discipline.  And  (as  we  shall 
see  more  clearly  later)  they  as  well  as  Lovell  took  refuge 
from  this  hollow  libertinism  in  an  equally  hollow  and 
utterly  irrational  belief  in  the  supernatural  and  the  miracu- 
lous. A few  of  William’s  utterances  indicative  of  this  final 


William  Lovell  IV,  2,\  L c,  212  £. 


41 8 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


conversion  of  his  may  serve  to  complete  the  picture  of  his 
inner  development. 


“Our  boldest  thoughts,”  he  says,^*  “our  most  wanton  doubts, 
after  having  destroyed  everything,  after  having  swept  through 
an  immense  desert  depopulated  by  themselves,  at  last  bow  before 
a feeling  which  makes  the  wilderness  bear  fruit  again.  . . . This 
feeling  overthrows  doubt  as  well  as  certainty,  it  rests  satisfied  in 
itself;  and  the  man  who  has  arrived  at  this  point  returns  to  some 
form  of  belief,  for  belief  and  feeling  are  the  same.  Thus  the 
most  reckless  freethinker  at  last  becomes  a worshipper  of  reli- 
gion; yes,  he  may  even  become  what  is  usually  called  a fanatic — 
a word  misunderstood  by  most  people  who  use  it.  And  since 
there  cannot  exist  in  us  a feeling  which  does  not  correspond  to 
some  kind  of  reality,  this  instinct  for  the  miraculous,  which  is 
innate  in  us,  probably  means  much  more  than  people  are  com- 
monly inclined  to  think.  . . . Dreams  are  perhaps  our  highest 
philosophy.  Perhaps  we  are  to  experience  a great  revelation 
which  will  accomplish  at  one  stroke  what  reason  must  for  ever 
fail  to  accomplish:  a solution  of  all  mysteries,  within  and  with- 
out. Perhaps  all  illusion  will  vanish  when  we  reach  a height  of 
vision  which  to  the  rest  of  mankind  appears  as  the  height  of 
absurdity.” 


If  the  downward  career  of  William  Lovell,  with  its  in- 
glorious ending  in  a duel  forced  upon  him  by  an  outraged 
Friedricli  rival,  has  at  least  something  in  it  of  a warning  ex- 
ScMegel’s  ample,  there  is  not  even  the  shadow  of  a con- 
Lucinde.  structive  purpose  to  be  discovered  in  Friedrich 
Schlegel’s  Lucmde  (1799).  Here  we  have  the  open  glori- 
fication of  unblushing  debauchery,  the  apotheosis  of  irre- 
sponsible caprice.  The  ideal  of  complete  culture  is  here 
perverted  into  the  ideal  of  absolute  aimlessness.  Individu- 
alism here  unwittingly  declares  its  own  bankruptcy. 

As  a novel,  Lucinde  is  far  inferior  even  to  William  LovelL 
The  author’s  principles  of  composition  may  be  inferred 
from  his  statement,^^  that  “ nothing  would  be  more  to  the 


William  Lovell  Y,  8.  9.  VI,  9 ; VI,  344  ff.  VII,  18. 

Lucinde  ed.  of  1799/.  13  f. — Cf.  Haym  /.  c.  493  ff.  Braudes  /.  c, 
72  ff.  H.  H.  Boyesen,  Essays  on  German  Literature p.  294  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  419 

purpose  of  this  book  than  that  in  writing  it  he  should  put 
aside  what  is  called  order  and  assert  to  the  full  his  unques- 
tioned right  to  a charming  lawlessness/*  Whatever  there 
is  of  a plot  is  contained  in  a single  chapter  entitled  ^ The 
Apprenticeship  of  Manliness/  which  reads  like  a distorted 
catalogue  of  Wilhelm  Meister’s  love  affairs.  The  charac- 
ters are  either  caricatures  or  shadow^s  or  both — from  Julius, 
the  philosophizing  roue  who  spends  his  time  in  “ reflecting 
about  the  possibility  of  a permanent  embrace/*  whose  sole 
aim  of  life  it  seems  to  be  ‘‘  not  only  to  have  enjoyment,  but 
also  to  enjoy  the  enjoyment,**  through  the  long  list  of  more 
or  less  ambiguous  w'omen  who  serve  him  as  object  lessons 
in  this  exalted  study,  to  Lucinde  herself,  the  embodiment 
of  the  Romantic  ideal  of  womanhood.^"  She,  too,  (like 
Julius),  was  one  of  those  who  live,  not  in  the  common  world, 
but  in  a world  of  their  own  creation.  She,  too,  with  a bold 
resolution  had  cast  off  all  social  bonds  and  restrictions,  and 
lived  entirely  free  and  independent.** 

Not  as  a work  of  fiction,  but  as  a social  programme,  Lu- 
cinde is  one  of  the  remarkable  books  of  the  world’s  litera- 
ture. Here  more  clearly  than  in  any  other  literary  produc- 
tion of  the  time  we  are  able  to  measure  the  degree  of  intel- 
lectual and  moral  dissoluteness  into  which  at  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century  the  lack  of  a healthy  national  life 
had  driven  the  most  cultivated  classes  of  Germany.  Here 
the  isolated  individuals  of  the  age  of  the  Migrations  seem 
to  reappear,  changed  from  the  heroic  dimensions  of  a 
Clovis  or  a Rosamond  to  the  neatness  and  elegance  of  the 
authors  and  authoresses  concerning  whom  Mme.  de  Stael 
felt  constrained  to  say^*:  ‘‘II  faut  I’avouer,  les  Allemands 
de  nos  jour  n*ont  pas  ce  que  Ton  peut  appeler  du  caractere.’* 
Here,  modern  humanity,  developed  to  its  highest  refine- 
ment and  susceptibility,  seems  to  sink  back  again  into  a 


Lucinde  p.  79.  Ib.  p.  9.  Ib.  p.  192. 

De  C A llemagne  III,  ii. 


4^0  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


State  of  moral  barbarism.  Here,  the  whole  world  seems 
to  be  transformed  into  one  vast  opportunity  for  self-indul- 
gence. 

Loathsome  as  it  is,  it  is  none  the  less  instructive  to  ob- 
serve the  paroxysms  of  insanity  (no  other  word  is  strong 
enough)  into  which  the  aesthetic  libertinism  of  this  book 
again  and  again  breaks  forth. 

“In  that  immortal  hour,”  thus  begins  the  chapter  entitled 
* Elegy  on  Idleness,’ “when  the  Spirit  moved  me  to  proclaim 
the  divine  gospel  of  joy  and  love,  I thus  spoke  to  myself:  ‘O 
idleness,  idleness!  thou  art  the  native  element  of  innocence  and 
poetry;  in  thee  live  and  breathe  the  heavenly  hosts;  blessed  the 
mortals  who  cherish  thee,  thou  sacred  gem,  sole  fragment  of 
godlike  being  that  is  left  to  us  from  paradise.’ — Like  a sage  of  the 
Orient,  I was  completely  lost  in  holy  brooding  and  calm  contem- 
plation of  the  eternal  substances,  especially  thine  [Lucinde’s]  and 
mine.  I saw  thee  and  myself,  a gentle  sleep  embracing  us  as  we 
were  embracing  each  other.  With  the  utmost  indignation  I 
thought  of  the  bad  men  who  would  fain  take  sleep  out  of  life. 
Oh,  they  never  slept  and  never  lived  themselves!  Why  are  the 
gods  gods  if  not  because  they  consciously  and  purposely  do  no- 
thing, because  they  understand  this  art  and  are  masters  in  it? 
And  oh,  how  the  poets,  the  sages  and  saints  are  endeavouring  to 
become  like  the  gods  in  this  respectl  How  they  vie  with  each 
other  in  the  praise  of  solitude,  leisure,  and  a liberal  carelessness 
and  inactivity!  And  they  are  right,  indeed;  for  everything 
good  and  beautiful  is  here  already  and  maintains  itself  by  its  own 
strength.  Why,  then,  this  constant  striving  and  pushing  without 
rest  and  repose  ? Industry  and  utility  are  the  angels  of  death 
who  with  flaming  sword  prevent  man  from  his  return  to  paradise. 
Through  composure  and  gentleness  only,  in  the  sacred  quietude 
of  genuine  passiveness,  can  we  realize  our  whole  self.  The  more 
beautiful  the  climate,  the  more  truly  passive  man  is.  Only  Italians 
know  how  to  carry  themselves,  and  Orientals  only  know  how  to 
recline.  The  right  of  idleness  marks  the  distinction  between  the 
noble  and  the  common,  and  is  the  true  essence  of  aristocracy. 
To  say  it  in  a word:  The  more  divine  man  is,  the  more  fully  does 
he  resemble  the  plant.  The  plant  of  all  forms  of  nature  is 


**  Lucinde  p.  77  ff.  ‘ Idylle  uber  den  Mussiggang.* 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  421 


the  most  moral  and  the  most  beautiful.  And  the  highest  and 
most  perfect  life  is  reached  by  simple  vegetating.” 

The  first  phase  of  Romanticism,  the  substitution  of  indi- 
vidual caprice  for  the  moral  law,  we  found  exemplified  in 
Tieck’s  William  LovelL  The  next  step,  con- 
sisting  in  open  glorification  of  the  flesh  and 
open  hostility  to  spiritual  progress,  was  taken  in  Friedrich 
Schlegel’s  Lucinde,  One  thing  now  remained  to  make  the 
caricature  of  the  classic  ideal  of  humanity  complete:  the 
flight  into  the  land  of  the  supranatural  and  the  miracu- 
lous. This  phase  of  Romanticism  attained  to  its  most 
perfect  type  in  Novalis’s  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen, 

We  cannot  think  of  Novalis  without  feeling  ourselves 
under  the  spell  of  a poetic  genius  in  whom  were  united  the 
simple  freshness  of  a child  and  the  heightened 
sensitiveness  of  a clairvoyant.  There  must  have 
been  something  of  the  saint,  something  of  sex- 
less serenity,  something  one  might  say  flowerlike  in  his  deli- 
cate and  fragile  nature.  His  brief  and  pure  life  appears  to 
us  as  an  incessant  but  calm  longing  for  inner  transfigura- 
tion; as  a gradual,  effortless  growing  into  the  spiritual;  his 
philosophic  aper^us  show  him  as  a mind  that  combined  the 
transcendentalism  of  Fichte  with  the  pantheism  of  Schelling. 
The  latter  in  Ideen  zu  einer  Philosophic  der  Natur  (1797) 
formulates  his  belief  in  the  words  The  system  of  nature 
is  at  the  same  time  the  system  of  our  spirit.  Nature  is  visi- 
ble spirit;  spirit  is  invisible  nature.”  Novalis  expresses  the 
same  thought  in  Fichtean  phraseology  ‘‘ Ego  = Non-Ego, 
the  highest  maxim  of  all  science  and  art.”  Schelling  in  the 
treatise  Von  der  Weltseele  (1798)  represents  the  universe  as 

That  the  Romantic  aimlessness  was  not  altogether  unproductive, 
that  above  all  it  helped  to  bring  about  that  extraordinary  state  ol 
feminine  culture  which  is  revealed  in  such  remarkable  women  as 
Caroline  Schelling,  Dorothea  Schlegel,  Rahel  Varnhagen,  Bettina  von 
Arnim,  can  here  only  be  hinted  at. 

Sdmmtl.  Werke  II,  55  f.  Schriften  II,/.  1 17, 


422  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

a great  animated  whole,  whose  principal  functions,  the  func- 
tions of  attraction  and  repulsion,  are  one  and  the  same  in 
every  realm  of  life,  from  the  vast  domain  of  atmospheric 
phenomena  through  the  infinite  variety  of  vegetable  and 
animal  processes  to  the  loftiest  speculations  of  the  indi- 
vidual human  mind.  In  many  of  the  most  characteristic 
aphorisms  of  Novalis  we  recognise  a kindred  view  of  the 
world  as  of  oneness  in  polarity:  “ If  God  could  become 
man,  he  can  also  become  stone,  plant,  beast,  and  element; 
and  in  this  manner  there  is  perhaps  a perpetual  redemption 
going  on  in  the  universe.^®- — The  plants  are  the  girls,  the 
animals  the  boys  of  nature.^^^ — Water  is  a wet  flame. 
Fully  comprehend  ourselves  we  cannot,  but  we  can  and  we 
shall  more  than  comprehend  ourselves  [i.e.,  only  feeling 
can  reveal  to  us  our  oneness  with  all  life]. — Every  step  in- 
ward, every  glance  into  our  own  bosom,  is  at  the  same  time 
an  ascension,  a sight  of  the  truly  outward.^® — Philosophy  is 
homesickness,  a yearning  to  be  at  home  in  the  All.**  And 
the  same  joy  in  the  instinctive,  the  unconscious,  the  dream- 
like, which  forms  a leading  note  of  the  whole  system  of 
Schelling,  we  hear  in  Novalis’s  incomparable  Hym^is  to 
Night.  One  might  say  that  Schelling’s  whole  creed,  the 
belief  in  the  identity  of  thinking  and  being,  of  life  and 
death,  was  contained  in  the  words  with  which  the  spirit  of 
Novalis*s  departed  love  calls  upon  him  to  share  her  blissful 
existence 

O!  sauge,  Geliebter, 

Gewaltig  mich  an, 

Dass  ich  entschlummern 
Und  lieben  kanno 
Ich  fiihle  des  Todes 
Verjiingende  Flut, 

Zu  Balsam  und  Aether 
Verwandeit  mein  Blut. 


Schriften  II,  I57v  155.  Ib,  162. 

^ Ib,  lib  ^^Ib.S. 


Ib.  127. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  423 


Ich  lebe  bei  Tage 
Voll  Glauben  und  Mut, 

Und  sterbe  die  Nachte 
In  heiliger  Glut. 

How  is  it  that  a poet  who  had  drunk  so  deeply  from  the 
well  of  life,  who  was  endowed  with  such  a profound  in- 
stinct for  the  unity  of  existence,  should  after  all 

have  ended  as  the  high-priest  of  a capricious 

, ciousness, 

mysticism  and  supernaturalism  ? The  answer  is 
not  far  to  seek.  Only  the  will  bridges  the  gulf  between  the 
ideal  and  the  real;  only  the  moral  command;  Thou  shalt! 
establishes  the  unity  of  matter  and  spirit.  This  homely 
truth  which  in  one  form  or  another  shines  out  from  the 
whole  life-work  of  Kant  and  Herder,  of  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler, was  something  entirely  hidden  from  the  overrefined 
circles  to  which  Novalis  belonged.  To  him,  as  to  the  rest 
of  the  Romanticists,  conscious  activity  was  a sin  against 
the  Holy  Ghost.  What  he  called  the  highest  life  was  at 
bottom  something  purely  negative,  a fathomless  nothing, 
complete  absence  of  endeavour,  absolutely  aimless  contem- 
plation. No  wonder  that  the  actual  life  with  its  manifold 
claims  on  will  and  self-consciousness  should  have  appeared 
to  him  as  ‘‘  a disease  of  the  spirit,”  that  the  visible  world 
should  have  seemed  to  him  a chaotic  dream,  and  dreams 
the  only  true  reality.  No  wonder  that  his  pantheistic  in- 
clinations should  have  led  him,  not  to  a firm  belief  in  the 
supreme  rule  of  an  all-pervading  and  all-embracing  moral 
law,  but  to  a superstitious  belief  in  the  divineness  of  indi- 
vidual caprice  and  fancy.  No  wonder  that  he  should  have 
found  the  true  object  of  poetry  in  representing  the  miracu- 
lous and  the  irrational;  that  he  should  have  reviled  the 
Reformation  and  glorified  the  Jesuits  that  he  should 


Schriften  II,  156. 

Cf,  the  essay  Eie  Christenheit  oder  Europa  ; Schriften^  I,  187  ff. 
(omitted  from  the  fifth  edition). 


424  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


have  fled  from  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  the  infidelity 
and  frivolity  of  modern  science  to  the  fairy-land  of  a fan- 
tastic Medisevalismo 

It  cannot  be  stated  too  emphatically  that  what  the  early 
Romanticists  were  pleased  to  call  the  Middle  Ages  was  far 
Fantastic  from  being  the  Middle  Ages  of  history.  It  was 
character  of  little  a reality  as  the  natural  man  of  Rousseau’s 

Eomantic  . .... 

Medievalism,  or  the  ideal  Greek  of  Schiller’s  imagination  was 

a reality.  It  was  simply  a new  Arcadia,  another  form  of 
that  craving  for  an  innocent,  childlike  existence  which 
seems  to  be  a concomitant  phenomenon  of  all  highly  de- 
veloped civilizations.  And  just  as  the  North  American 
Indian  of  to-day  would  probably  fail  to  recognise  his  like- 
ness in  the  noble  and  sentimental  savages  who  in  the  lit- 
erary tradition  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  wont  to  put 
the  perfidious  European  to  shame;  as  the  patriotic  Athenian 
of  the  time  of  Pericles  would  probably  have  declined  to  be 
classed  together  with  the  philanthropic  and  ethereal  being 
which  the  era  of  Enlightenment  was  fond  of  imagining  as 
truly  Grecian  — so  the  mediaeval  knight  and  burgher  would 
hardly  have  been  able  to  suppress  a scornful  smile  if  they 
had  foreseen  what  extravagant  and  absurd  roles  they  would 
be  made  to  play  in  Romantic  literature. 

The  Middle  Ages,  as  we  have  seen  before,  was  an  era  of 
strong  collectivistic  tendencies,  of  most  energetic  social 
The  true  organization.  The  sinking  of  the  individual  in 
medieval  great  public  tasks,  the  predominance  of  corpo- 
spirit.  consciousness  — whether  it  be  represented 

by  church,  empire,  knighthood,  or  burgherdom — over  pri- 
vate interest,  formed  its  most  characteristic  feature.  Me- 
diaeval literature  and  art,  even  where  they  dwell  on  indi- 
vidual experience,  always  presuppose  the  existence  of  a 
great  organic  whole  within  which  the  individual  moves  and 
has  its  being.  Even  over  the  most  diversified  representa- 
tions of  actual  life,  such  as  Parzival  or  the  paint-* 

ings  of  a Van  Eyck  or  Memlinc,  there  is  spread  the  halo  of 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^5 


an  all-encircling,  divine  presence  which  sanctifies  the  trivial 
and  the  fleeting.  Let  us  here  for  a moment  recall  once 
more  Memlinc’s  picture  of  The  Seven  Joys  of  Mary  which 
came  to  our  mind  when  considering  Goethe’s  Hermann  und 
Dorothea,^^  Here  we  have  a most  variegated  landscape, 
mountains  and  hillsides,  rivers  and  meadows,  rocky  passes 
and  the  open  sea,  lowly  hamlets  and  a gorgeous  city;  we 
have  the  greatest  diversity  of  actions,  the  Annunciation, 
the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  the  Slaughter  of  the  Inno- 
cents, the  Travels  of  the  Magi,  Christ’s  Resurrection,  the 
Walk  to  Emmaus,  Mary’s  Death  and  Assumption.  And 
yet  this  multitude  of  scenes  and  figures  does  not  bewilder 
us.  We  feel  they  are  held  together  by  an  inner  bond,  we 
accept  them  as  so  many  different  phases  of  the  one  great 
central  action  of  the  Christian  legend:  the  redemption  of 
the  flesh  through  the  incarnate  God. 

Now  compare  with  this  the  following  scenery  from  No- 
valis’s  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  ■ — a scenery  intended, 
undoubtedly,  to  produce  an  effect  similar  to  that  of  some 
mediaeval  painting  like  Memlinc’s. 

“ They  looked  down  upon  a romantic  country  which  was  strewn 
with  cities  and  castles,  with  temples  and  monuments,  and  which 
combined  all  the  grace  of  cultivated  plains  with  the  awful  chasms 
of  the  desert  and  a rocky  wilderness.  The  mountain-tops  in 
their  ice  and  snow  covers  were  shining  like  airy  flames.  The 
plain  was  smiling  in  its  freshest  green.  The  distance  was 
merged  into  all  shades  of  blue,  and  from  the  darkness  of  the  sea 
the  pennants  of  innumerable  masts  were  flying.  In  the  back- 
ground was  seen  a shipwreck;  nearer  by,  peasants  in  gay  coun- 
try frolic.  Yonder,  the  majestic  spectacle  of  a volcano  in  action, 
the  devastations  of  an  earthquake;  here,  a pair  of  lovers  in  sweet 
embrace  under  shady  trees.  On  this  side,  a maiden  lying  on  her 
bier,  the  distressed  lover  embracing  her,  the  weeping  parents 
standing  by;  on  another,  a lovely  mother  with  a child  at  her 

Cf,  Sulpiz  Boisseree,  Briefwechsel  mit  Goethe  p.  29, 

Cf.  supra  p.  360  f. 

Heinrich  v.  Ofterdingen  I,  9;  Schr,  I,  180  ff. 


426  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


breast,  angels  sitting  at  her  feet  and  looking  down  from  the 
boughs  overhead.  The  scenes  changed  continually  and  finally 
streamed  together  into  one  great  mysterious  spectacle.  Heaven 
and  earth  were  in  revolt.  All  the  terrors  had  broken  loose.  A 
mighty  voice  called  to  arms.  A ghastly  army  of  skeletons  with 
black  standards  came  down  from  the  mountains  like  a hurricane 
and  fell  upon  the  life  that  sported  in  the  valley.  A terrible 
slaughter  began,  the  earth  trembled,  the  storm  roared,  and  the 
night  was  rent  by  awful  meteors.  A funeral-pile  rose  higher 
and  higher,  and  the  children  of  life  were  consumed  in  its  flames. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  heap  of  ashes  there  broke  forth  a stream, 
milky  blue.  The  spectres  scattered,  but  the  flood  rose  and  rose 
and  devoured  the  gruesome  brood.  Soon  all  the  terrors  had  van- 
ished. Heaven  and  earth  flowed  together  in  sweet  music.  A 
wondrous  flower  swam  resplendent  on  the  gentle  waves.” 

What  is  this  but  an  idle  play  of  fancy,  a degradation  of 
art  to  the  role  of  a juggler,  a wilful  jumbling  together  of 
Romantic  conceptions  which  have  nothing  in  common, 
Mediaevalism  a complete  failure  to  give  the  impression  of 
SteTnte-  organic  and  harmonious  whole?  It  is  a 
gration,  typical  instance  of  the  difference  between  the 
mediaeval  and  the  Romantic  spirit.  The  fanciful  exterior 
of  mediaeval  life,  its  simple  naive  joy  in  the  mysterious, 
its  childlike  belief  in  the  impossible,  rested  on  the  solid 
foundation  of  an  unbroken  tradition,  of  an  implicit  faith  in 
divine  omnipotence  and  goodness.  It  was  counterbalanced 
by  an  earnest  devotion  to  common  social  tasks,  by  a strong 
sense  of  mutual  interdependence,  of  the  moral  obligation 
of  each  to  all.  The  Romantic  predilection  for  mystery  and 
wonder  proceeded  from  the  overwrought  imagination  of 
extreme  individualists  and  freethinkers.  It  had  no  moral 
background.  It  was  devoid  of  truly  religious  feeling.  It 
was  a literary  symptom  of  social  disintegration,  a concomi- 
tant phenomenon  of  the  final  breakdown  of  the  Holy  Ro- 
man Empire.  The  mysterious  ^ blue  flower,’  in  the  pursuit 
of  which  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  consumes  his  life,  was 
a fit  symbol  of  the  aimless  and  fantastic  yearning  in  which 
not  only  Novalis  but  the  majority  of  the  cultivated  youth 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  427 

of  his  time  squandered  their  intellectual  energies,  and  which 
was  to  plunge  the  country  into  the  disasters  of  Austerlitz 
and  Jena. 

It  is  instructive  to  compare  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen^  the 
representative  novel  of  Romanticism,  with  representative 
works  of  other  ages  or  tendencies,  such  as  Wolf- 
ram’s ParzivaL  Grimmelshausen’s  Simplicissi-  Seinncli  von 
' Ofterdingen. 

nius,  Wilhelm  Meister,  In  all  three  of  these 
romances,  the  hero  enters  into  a conflict  with  the  world 
and  himself,  in  all  three  of  them  he  is  enriched  and 
strengthened  by  this  very  conflict.  Parzival  wins  the  crown 
of  life  by  earnest  striving  for  self-mastery  and  by  active 
work  for  the  common  w^eal.  Simplicissimus,  though  tossed 
about  in  a sea  of  meanness  and  vice,  maintains  after  all  his 
moral  nature  and  at  last  reaches  the  harbour  of  a tranquil 
indifference  to  outward  circumstance.  Wilhelm  Meister, 
though  striving  for  self-culture,  is  led  through  contact  with 
the  most  varied  conditions  of  society  to  a perfectly  uni- 
versal sympathy  with  actual  life. 

Nothing  of  all  this  do  we  find  in  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen, 
‘‘Die  Welt  wird  Traum,  der  Traum  wird  Welt”  — this  is 
the  ideal  of  existence  held  up  to  us  here.  In  the  whole 
novel,  not  a single  thing  is  done  which  may  be  called  an  act 
of  free  moral  endeavour,  not  a single  character  appears 
whose  will  power  would  be  equal  to  any  decisive  test.  The 
book  impresses  us  as  a series  of  charming  hallucinations;  it 
is  as  though  the  subconscious  self  had  emancipated  itself 
from  the  will  and  were  roaming  about,  in  sweet  intoxication, 
through  the  shadow-land  of  the  incoherent  and  the  incredible. 

The  air  is  filled  with  gentle  music,  a blue  haze  enshrouds 
the  distance;  mediaeval  merchants  with  faces  of  pre-Ra- 
phaelite  saints  ride  on  the  highway,  discussing  in  chorus 
questions  of  poetry  and  art;  hidden  paths  lead  through  rock 
and  underbrush  to  subterranean  caverns,  where  venerable 


Heiu7\  V,  Oft.  II,  I ; I,  c,  213. 


428  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


hermits  are  poring  over  prophetic  books;  voices  are  heard 
from  beneath  the  ground,  visions  appear  in  the  trees,  spirits 
of  the  departed  return  in  manifold  reincarnations.  In  the 
midst  of  these  fantastic  surroundings  we  see  Heinrich 
himself  travelling  in  search  of  the  wonderful  flower  on  which 
he  once  has  gazed  in  a dream,  the  symbol  of  ideal  poetry; 
and  the  further  he  travels,  the  further  is  he  removed  from 
the  life  of  reality,  the  more  completely  does  he  seem  to 
lose  his  human  identity.  So  that  we  are  not  surprised  to 
hear  that  for  awhile  he  dwells  among  the  dead;  that  he 
lives  through  all  the  ages  of  history;  that  the  various 
maidens  in  whose  love  he  finds  the  same  delight  which 
the  vision  of  the  flower  had  given  him,  are  in  reality  one; 
that  he  at  length  reaches  a stage  of  existence  where  men, 
beasts,  plants,  stones,  stars,  elements,  sounds,  colours,  com- 
mune with  each  other  like  one  family,  act  and  talk  like  one 
race,”  and  that  he  himself  is  transformed  successively  into 
a rock,  a singing  tree,  and  a golden  wether. 

In  studying  these  fantastic  ravings  of  an  eccentric  and 
uncontrolled  imagination  one  understands  how  a genera- 
tion whose  reason  and  will  had  been  benumbed  by  their 
influence,  should  have  become  unfit  for  discharging  the 
simple  duties  of  the  citizen  and  the  patriot;  one  compre- 
hends Napoleon’s  contempt  for  these  German  ideologists  ”; 
and  one  sees  the  inner  justice  of  the  political  humiliation 
of  Germany  in  1806. 

III.  The  Regeneration  of  the  German  People  and 
THE  Wars  of  Liberation. 

We  have  followed  the  mental  process  by  which  the  Ro- 
mantic movement  carried  the  noble  individualism  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller  to  the  extreme  of  selfishness  and 
The  recoil  of  perverted  the  ideal  of  humanity  into  a cari- 

cature  of  humanity.  We  have  now  reached  a 
point  where  we  see  the  recoil,  as  it  were,  of  the  German  mind 


Z.  c.  252. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^9 

from  Romantic  wilfulness,  the  rebound  of  Romanticism 
itself  from  individualistic  caprice  to  collectivistic  endea- 
vour, the  swinging  back  of  the  intellectual  pendulum  from 
self-culture  and  self-enjoyment  to  national  tasks  and  national 
service. 

Never  perhaps  has  distress,  the  great  teacher  of  mankind, 
taught  a more  impressive  or  wholesome  lesson  than  in  the 
German  disaster  of  1806.  Never  has  a people  undergone 
a more  wonderful  rejuvenation  than  the  German  people 
underwent  in  the  very  years  following  the  downfall  of 
Prussia.  Never  has  there  been  a more  striking  illustration 
of  the  indestructibility  of  spiritual  forces. 

For  who  can  doubt  that  it  was  Germany’s  spiritual  past 
which  saved  her  in  this  political  cataclysm  ? Who  does  not 
see  that  it  was  the  survival  of  the  best  of  eighteenth-century 
individualism  which  led  to  the  national  uprising  against 
Napoleon,  and  thus  to  the  first  manifestation  of  nineteenth- 
century  collectivism  ? In  other  words,  who  would  deny 
that  what  brought  about  the  reorganization  of  the  Prussian 
state  and  the  delivery  from  foreign  oppression  was  in  the 
last  analysis  Kant's  moral  law,  Herder’s  conception  of 
national  individuality,  the  ideal  of  complete  manhood  em- 
bodied in  the  work  of  Klopstock,  Lessing,  Goethe,  and 
Schiller?  Let  us  look  somewhat  more  closely  at  the  form 
which  these  ideas  took  under  the  pressure  of  the  great 
struggle  for  national  existence. 

I.  Pantheism  and  Socialism. 

What  might  be  said  of  the  whole  Romantic  movement, — 

that  it  resembled  a Janus-head  looking  on  the  one  hand 

toward  liberty,  on  the  other  toward  unity — may  „ . i , 

^ ^ ^ ^ Scnieiermaclier 

with  special  fitness  be  said  of  Schleiermacher.  as  individual- 
None  of  the  Romanticists  was  a more  enthusi- 
astic  advocate  of  individualism  than  he;  none  was  a more 
radical  hater  of  conventional  forms.  Through  an  Essay  07i 
the  l7nmorality  of  all  Morals  he  first  won  the  confidence  of 


430  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Friedrich  Schlegel/”  and  Schlegel’s  Lucinde  he  greeted  as 
the  consummation  of  art,  as  a poem  in  which  the  divine 
flower  of  love  ” had  for  the  first  time  been  represented 
worthily  and  truthfully/^  Even  those  works  in  which 
he  has  embodied  his  finest  feelings  and  his  best  thought, 
the  Discourses  on  Religion  (1799)  and  the  Monologues  (1800), 
exalt  the  sacredness  of  individual  character  in  a manner 
that  approaches  the  ecstatic/’* 

“Welcome  to  me,  thrice  welcome  when  I see  the  slaves  trem- 
ble, sweet  consciousness  of  liberty!  beautiful  calmness  of  a serene 
mind  with  which  I greet  the  future,  my  free  possession,  not  my 
mistress!  The  gods  only,  the  fictitious  ones,  are  ruled  by  fate, 
because  they  have  no  inner  life;  and  the  meanest  of  mortals,  be- 
cause they  have  destroyed  it, — not  the  man  who  acts  freely  from 
within,  as  is  his  portion.  Where  is  the  limit  of  my  power?  Im- 
possible is  for  me  only  what  has  been  made  so  through  the  blend- 
ing in  my  own  self  of  freedom  and  necessity.  Strangely  confused 
he  to  whom  this  limitation  of  his  activity  appears  as  an  extrane- 
ous force — a limitation  which  is  an  integral  part  of  his  existence, 
his  freedom,  his  will!  Thus  I live  in  the  consciousness  of  my 
whole  nature.  To  become  ever  more  what  I am  is  my  only  aim; 
every  act  of  my  life  is  a special  phase  of  this  one  aim.  Let  time 
bring,  as  it  may,  material  and  opportunity  for  the  moulding  and 
manifesting  of  my  inner  self.  I shun  nothing;  all  is  the  same 
to  me.” 

This  is  one  side  of  Schleiermacher.  It  is  the  side  which 
connects  him  most  intimately  with  Kantian  transcendental- 
ism and  the  individualistic  ideal  of  the  classic  poets.  But 
it  is  by  no  means  his  whole  self.  There  is  another  Schleier- 
macher looking  toward  the  collectivistic  ideal  of  the  future. 

More  deeply  than  most  of  his  contemporaries  he  felt  the 
agony  of  isolation,  of  intellectual  loneliness,  to  which  the 
absence  of  great  national  tasks  had  condemned  the  best  men 


Cf.  Haym  /.  c.  415. 

Cf.  his  Vertraute  Brief e iiber  Fr,  Schlegels  Lucinde ; Sdmmtl. 
Werke,  Abteil.  3,  I,  421  ff. 

Monologen  4 ; /.  ^r.  396  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  43 1 


of  his  age.  His  innermost  being  revolted  against  the  petty 
divisions  of  class,  of  rank,  of  profession,  in 
which  he  saw  the  society  of  his  time  arrayed 
against  itself.  He  craved  a larger  public  spirit 
which  should  lead  all  separate  activities  into  a common 
channel,  which  should  unite  the  whole  nation  in  work  for 
spiritual  freedom.  Where,”  he  exclaims  in  the  Monologues, 
thinking  of  course  of  Plato’s  Republic,  where  are  the  an- 
cient dreams  of  the  philosophers  about  the  state  ? Where 
is  the  consciousness,  which  ought  never  to  l^ave  us,  that  we 
are  all  part  of  our  nation’s  thought,  imagination,  and  ac- 
tivity ? Where  is  the  love  which  we  ought  to  cherish  for 
this  self-created  larger  existence  of  ours  ? Where  is  the 
devotion  which  would  rather  sacrifice  the  narrow  conscious- 
ness of  personality  than  lose  this  wider  collective  conscious- 
ness; which  would  rather  risk  the  individual  life  than  that 
the  fatherland  should  perish  ? So  far  removed  is  this  age 
from  even  the  dimmest  conception  of  what  this  highest 
form  of  human  life  means,  that  they  think  that  state  the 
best  which  is  felt  the  least,  that  the  noblest  product  of  the 
human  mind,  through  which  we  are  to  develop  our  nature 
to  its  fullest  possibilities,  is  considered  by  them  a necessary 
evil.”  Hence  there  is  no  community  of  higher  interests 
in  this  generation.  Here  and  there  a brooding  thinker,  a 
solitary  dreamer,  who  has  lifted  himself  above  the  prevail- 
ing selfishness,  leads  a hidden  existence,^*  a stranger  to 
the  life  that  surrounds  him,  a prophetic  citizen  of  a future 
society. — In  vain  does  he  look  to  others  for  sympathy  with 
what  is  most  sacred  to  him.  Even  to  ask  for  such  sympa- 
thy seems  folly  to  the  children  of  this  age;  and  to  divine  a 
higher  and  more  intimate  community  of  spirits,  nay,  to 
work  for  it  in  spite  of  narrowness  and  prejudice,  is  the 
height  of  madness.” 

What  is  needed,  then,  is  a new  faith,  a faith  consistent 


Monologen  3 ; /.  c.  388. 


Ib.  391.  385  f. 


432  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


with  our  best  insight  and  at  the  same  time  appealing  to  the 
Hispantlie-  common  feeling  of  humanity.  .And  this  faith 
ism.  Schleiermacher  finds  in  the  pantheistic  under- 

current of  Kantian  philosophy.  To  have  shown  the  essen- 
tial harmony  between  Spinoza,  Kant,  and  Christianity,  to 
have  made  the  latent  pantheism  of  the  moral  law  a motive 
power  in  the  religious  life  of  the  nineteenth  century,  is 
Schleiermacher’s  great  achievement. 

From  the  discord  of  individual  opinions,  from  the  self* 

sufficiency  of  a shallow  and  capricious  culture,  he  called  his 

contemporaries  back  to  an  earnest  belief  in  an 

The  panthe-  all-embracing  and  an  all-controlling  spiritual 
istic  religion.  ° . . 

order.  Comprehensiveness  of  view  the  prime 

virtue  of  the  modern  man: — this  is  the  fundamental  thought 

of  the  Discourses  on  Religion,  Only  by  looking  at  things  in 

their  connection  with  the  totality  of  things  are  we  able  to 

see  them  rightly.  Only  by  feeling  ourselves  as  living  organs 

of  a living  universe  are  we  able  to  understand  ourselves. 

The  world  is  mute  to  him  who  sees  only  separate  phe- 

nomena.**^  To  him  who  looks  at  it,  as  Jesus,  Spinoza,  and 

Kant  do,  sub  specie  aeterni^  it  is  full  of  divine,  eternal 

music.**® 

A religion  of  this  kind — for  the  feeling  of  the  oneness  of 
all  nature  is  religion — is  destined  to  be  the  great  peace- 
maker and  unifier  of  the  ages  to  come.  For  such  a religion 
enters  into  all  relations  of  life,  and  makes  every  feeling  a 
bond  between  the  individual  and  the  world  at  large.  It 
opens  the  eye  to  a divining  sense  of  the  immanent  law, 
which  rules  the  greatest  and  the  smallest,  which  shows 
itself  in  apparent  perturbations  of  its  order  no  less  than  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  natural  events.  It  makes  us  see  that 
everything  is  divine,  that  everything  is  a necessary  link  in 

Reden  iiber  d.  Religion^;  Sdmmtl.  Werke,  Abt.  i,  I,  228.  230.  234. 
— Cf.  the  comparison  of  Schleiermacher’s  Reden  with  Chateaubriand^s 
Ge'nie  du  Christianisme  (1802)  in  Boyesen’s  Essays p.  353  f. 

Re  den  iiber  d.  ReL;  1.  c,  190.  213. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONS TRTC7T0N  433 


the  great  chain  of  life,  that  evil  is  nothing  but  a condition 
of  the  universal  good.  It  points  toward  the  true  sources  of 
individual  thought  and  endeavour;  for  ‘‘he  who  in  his  best 
moments  does  not  feel  that  he  is  driven  by  a divine  inspi- 
ration, who  in  such  moments  does  not  feel  himself  in  imme- 
diate contact  with  the  All,  has  no  religion.'’^’  It  imbues 
us  with  a firm  trust  in  the  progress  of  humanity,  by  teach 
ing  us  how  everywhere  and  at  all  times  “ the  crude,  the  un- 
couth, the  formless,  is  ultimately  absorbed  into  some  organic 
whole.”  It  makes  the  highest  conceptions  of  all  human 
thought,  the  ideas  of  God  and  immortality,  an  essential  and 
integral  part  of  every  individual  life.'* ** 

“ The  common  conception  of  God  as  a being  outside  or  behind 
the  world,  far  from  being  the  one  and  all  of  religion,  is  only  a most 
inadequate  manner  of  expressing  it.  The  true  essence  of  religion 
lies  in  being  filled  with  the  deity  as  we  find  it  in  ourselves  no  less 
than  in  the  world.  So,  the  goal  of  religious  life  is  not  the  im- 
mortality which  many  desire  and  believe  in,  the  immortality  out- 
side and  beyond  time,  but  an  immortality  -which  we  may  attain 
even  in  this  life,  a task  in  the  solution  of  which  we  are  continually 
engaged.  In  the  midst  of  the  finite  to  grow  into  the  infinite,  to 
be  eternal  in  every  moment,  that  is  the  immortality  which  religion 
offers.” 

Thus  we  observe  in  Schleiermacher  what  we  observed  in 
Kant  and  Herder,  in  Goethe  and  Schiller,  the  blending  of 

two  apparently  contrasting  ideals,  the  reconcilia-  ^,1.1. 

^ ° oGnleiermaclier 

tion  of  free  personality  and  common  endeavour,  as  a public 

But  while,  broadly  speaking,  there  was  in  the 
classic  poets  and  thinkers  a decided  preponderance  of  the 
individualistic  element  over  the  collectivistic,  the  reverse  is 
true  of  Schleiermacher.  Fully  accepting  their  demand  for 
the  highest  intellectual  and  artistic  culture,  he  felt  more 
deeply  than  any  of  them  the  necessity  of  rooting  all  indi- 


Reden  iiber  d.  Rel.;  1.  c.  250.  Ib.  240. 

**  Ib.p.  264. — Cf.  the  masterly  analysis  of  the  Reden  in  Haym  /.  c, 
417  ff.  and  W.  Dilthey,  Schlciermachers  Leben, 


434  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


vidual  culture  in  common  convictions  about  the  ultimate 
aims  of  existence. 

More  clearly  than  they  he  saw  that  the  breakdown  of  all 
outward  forms  of  traditional  belief  towards  which  the 
intellectual  life  of  Germany  ever  since  the  Reformation 
had  been  drifting,  must  inevitably  lead  to  a loosening  of  all 
social  bonds,  unless  it  were  to  give  rise  to  a purer,  finer, 
more  spiritual,  but  not,  on  that  account,  less  universal  faith. 
In  the  principles  of  this  faith,  in  other  words  in  a panthe- 
istic religion,  he  saw  the  fulfilment  of  Protestantism;  in  the 
spreading  of  these  principles  he  found  the  task  of  his  own 
life;  on  the  hope  of  their  ultimate  victory  rested  his  trust 
in  Germany's  future,  even  in  the  midst  of  crushing  defeat 
and  disaster.  ‘‘  Germany  is  still  there,”  he  wrote  in  1806, 
the  year  of  deepest  national  humiliation,  her  spiritual 
power  is  undiminished,  and  to  fulfil  her  mission  she  will  rise 
with  unexpected  might,  worthy  of  her  ancient  heroes  and 
her  inborn  strength."  In  his  long  and  successful  career  as 
professor  of  theology  at  the  University  of  Berlin,  in  the 
founding  of  which  he  with  Fichte  and  Wilhelm  von  Hum- 
boldt took  a most  distinguished  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
part,  Schleiermacher  had  ample  opportunity  to  redeem  the 
pledge  contained  in  these  words,  by  unremitting  and  coura- 
geous work  in  the  service  of  true  spiritual  freedom. 

About  the  same  time  that  Schleiermacher,  inspired  by 
Kantian  thought,  was  led  to  a faith  which  links  the  indi- 
vidual to  the  universe,  Fichte,  he  too  a believer 
in  the  supremacy  of  the  moral  law,  became  the 
forerunner  of  modern  German  socialism. 

The  inner  affinity  of  Fichte’s  ethical  convictions  to  those 
of  Kant  is  easily  seen.  To  both  the  external  world  is  a 
product  of  the  mind.  Both  believe  in  moral  freedom  as 
the  fundamental  principle  of  human  life.  Both  find  in  the 

In  the  Nachrede  added  to  the  second  edition  of  the  Reden;  I,  c, 
456.  Cf.  G.  Baur,  Schleiermacher  als  Prediger  in  d.  Zeit  v,  Deutschlds 
Erniedrigung  u,  Erhebung  p.  8 ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  43$ 


voice  of  conscience  the  highest  manifestation  of  the  divine. 
It  is  only  a further  development  of  Kantian 
transcendentalism  when  Fichte  in  the  essay  On  Fichte  and 
ihe  Foimdation  of  our  Belief  in  a Divine  Order 
of  the  Ufiiverse  (1798)  sums  up  his  creed  in  the  words 
Our  world  is  the  material  for  our  duty  made  manifest  to 
our  senses;  herein  lies  the  true  reality  of  things,  the  sub- 
stance of  all  appearance.”  It  is  only  a dithyrambic  para- 
phrase of  Kantian  principles  when  in  the  Appeal  to  the  Fub- 
lic  against  the  Charge  of  Atheis^n  (1799)  he  describes  the 
revolution  wrought  in  the  life  of  the  individual  by  means  of 
a full  grasp  of  transcendental  views.“^  “ This  earth  of  ours 
with  all  its  splendours  which  in  your  childish  ignorance  you 
fancied  yourselves  to  be  in  need  of;  this  sun  of  ours  and 
the  thousand  times  thousand  suns  which  surround  it;  all 
the  earths  which  you  divine  about  every  one  of  these  thou- 
sand times  thousand  suns; — this  whole  vast  universe  the 
thought  of  which  makes  your  soul  tremble  is  nothing  but 
a faint  reflex  of  your  own  endless  and  for  ever  progressing 
existence.  You  may  boldly  oppose  your  infinitude  to  the 
vast  universe  and  say:  How  should  I fear  thy  might,  which 
affects  only  what  is  like  thee  and  never  reaches  into  my 
sphere!  Thou  art  changeable,  not  I;  all  thy  metamor- 
phoses are  only  a spectacle  for  me,  and  I shall  always 
hover  entire  over  the  scattered  fragments  of  thy  forms.” 
Yet  with  all  this,  what  a difference  between  Kant,  the 
private  individual,  the  lonely  thinker,  the  dutiful  subject 
of  Frederick  the  Great,  the  man  whose  life  was  affected 
only  in  its  decline  by  the  new  political  ideals  born  in  the 
French  Revolution, — and  Fichte,  the  restless  agitator, 

Ueber  d.  Grund  unseres  Glaubens  an  e.  gdttl.  Weltregierung  (1798); 
Sammtl.  Werke  V,  185.  Cf.  D,  Bestimmung  d.  Menschen  (1800);  ib. 
II,  163. 

Appellatio7i  an  d.  Publikum  gegen  d.  Anklage  d.  Atheismus ; I,  c. 
V,  236  f.  Jul.  Schmidt,  Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  IV,  70,  erroneously  quotes 
this  passage  as  belonging  to  the  Besiitnmung  d.  Menschen^ 


43^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  fiery  orator,  the  witness  of  the  catastrophe  of  1806, 
the  hater  of  Napoleon,  the  man  whose  best  years  were 
given  up  to  the  work  of  national  regeneration,  whose  pre- 
mature death  in  the  midst  of  his  country’s  uprising  was 
a sacrifice  to  the  common  cause ! Kant  addresses  himself 
primarily  to  the  intellect.  The  abstract  man,  as  a being 
endowed  with  reason  and  instinct,  is  the  chief  object  of  his 
study.  A just  administration  of  private  affairs  is  the  fixed 
point  round  which  his  moral  philosophy  revolves.  Fichte 
appeals  primarily  to  the  will.  The  very  soul  of  his  ethics 
is  the  idea  of  the  absorption  of  the  individual  in  the  com- 
mon life.  A perfect  society,  not  the  perfect  man,  is  the 
ideal  with  which  his  whole  philosophy  is  inspired.®*  The 
scholar  is  to  him  a public  character,  a priest  of  truth,  a 
warrior  for  freedom  and  culture,  whose  very  life  must  count 
for  nothing  when  he  is  called  upon  to  defend  a principle.®* 
Individual  life  is  no  life  except  in  so  far  as  it  is  freely  given 
to  the  cause  of  right  and  reason.®^  It  is  a clear  demand  of 
justice  that  every  individual  should  have  the  same  opportu- 
nity as  all  others  to  give  his  share  to  the  common  cause; 
and  as  long  as  the  state  has  not  organized  labour  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  insure  to  all  its  members  this  possibility  of  a 
free  surrender  to  the  whole,  it  falls  short  of  its  most  essen- 
tial duty.“ 

Nowhere  has  Fichte  given  to  these  ideas  a more  direct 
application  to  the  political  problems  of  his  own  day  than 


Cf,  Ed.  Zeller,  Fichte  als  Poliiiker;  in  his  Vortr,  u,  Ahhandlgen 
p,  140  ff. 

Cf.  the  Vorlesungen  iiher  d.  Bestimmung  d.  Gelehrten  (1794) ; 

Werke  VI,  291  ff. ; and  Ueber  d.  Wesen  d.  Gelehrten  (1805)  ; ib,  349  ff. 

Cf.  D.  Bestimmung  d.  Menschen  III,  2 ; 1.  c.  II,  265  ff* 

Cf.  D.  geschlossene  Handelsstaat  (1800):  /.  c.  Ill,  387  ff. — Gro- 
tesque and  impracticable  as  the  economic  propositions  of  this  essay 
are,  its  essential  thought,  the  moral  obligation  of  the  state  to  regulate 
industrial  production,  has  become  one  of  the  most  powerful  social 
agencies  of  the  present  day. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  437 


in  two  courses  of  lectures  delivered  at  Berlin,  the  one  a 
year  and  a half  before  the  battle  of  Jena,  the  other  at  a 
time  when  the  Prussian  capital  had  been  changed  to  a 
French  garrison : the  Grundziige  des  gegenwdrtigen  Zeitaliers 
(Fundamental  Principles  of  the  Present  Age),  1804-5, 
the  Reden  an  die  deutsche  Nation  (Addresses  to  the  German 
Nation),  1807-8. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  Fichte’s  Grundziige  with  an 
essay  of  kindred  purpose  which  appeared  almost  simul- 
taneously with  it:  Ernst  Moritz  Arndt’s  Geist  der 
Zeit  {Spirit  of  the  Age,  1806).  Arndt,  the  popu- 
lar  writer,  the  patriotic  historian,  appeals  above 
all  to  the  sense  of  national  honour.  There  was  a time 
when  the  German  name  was  respected  in  Europe,  when  the 
cathedrals  of  Strassburg  and  Cologne,  the  merchant  fleets 
of  the  Hanse,  the  works  of  Diirer,  the  deeds  of  Luther, 
told  the  world  of  a people  in  whom  the  spirit  of  lawful 
freedom  and  sturdy  citizenship  was  alive.  This  time,  alas! 
is  gone.  Internal  dissension,  outward  humiliations,  the 
despotism  of  the  princes,  the  indifference  of  the  masses, — 
all  this  has  contributed  to  deprive  even  the  educated  classes 
of  whatever  they  had  of  active  interest  in  the  affairs  of 
home  and  country.  Our  poets  walk  among  us  like  spirits 
of  the  past;  they  are  strangers  among  a people  which  does 
not  understand  their  language.  Our  scholars  are  ambitious 
busy-bodies  heaping  up  endless  material  for  knowledge, 
without  being  able  to  make  use  of  it.  Our  critics  are  hair- 
splitting scribblers,  without  any  heart  for  what  is  great  and 
good,  without  any  knowledge  of  real  life.  Our  whole  age 
is  over-cultured  and  impotent,®®  ‘‘  too  wise  for  this  earth, 

Geist  d.  Zeit^  first  ed.,/.  go. — Among:  other  patriotic  writers  who 
endeavoured  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  people  to  the  wretchedness  of 
existing  public  conditions,  Seume,  the  author  of  the  Spaziergang  nach 
Syrakus  (1802)  deserves  especial  mention.  His  Mein  So7nmer  1805 
(1806)  gives  a most  drastic  description  of  the  degrading  effects  of 
Napoleonic  oppression. 


438  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


too  cowardly  for  heaven.”  Only  by  completely  sweep- 
ing away  the  ruling  selfishness  and  servility,  by  con- 

juring up  a new  public  spirit,  by  becoming  what  we  are 
meant  to  be:  a free,  united,  powerful  nation,  can  we  be 
saved. 

While  Arndt  exposes  the  fundamental  immorality  of  Ro- 
mantic wilfulness  by  way  of  historical  criticism,  Fichte 
Fichte’s  accomplishes  the  same  object  by  way  of  philo- 

&rundzuge  sophical  speculation.  Inspired  as  he  is  by  Rous- 

aes  gegenwi  ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Zeitalters,  seau  and  Schiller,  he  dreams,  in  the  Grundziige^’^ 

of  a primitive  state  of  innocence  and  instinctive  righteous- 
ness lying  at  the  beginning  of  human  history,  of  a gradual 
falling  away  from  this  state  of  perfection  through  the  con- 
flict between  authority  and  freedom,  and  of  the  final  return 
to  it  through  reason  and  culture.  His  own  time  he  places 
midway  between  the  ideal  past  and  the  ideal  future,  he  sees 
in  it  the  epoch  of  revolt  against  the  authority  of  reason,  a 
period  of  complete  lawlessness  and  egotism,  a state  of  abso- 
lute sinfulness,” 

To  free  ourselves  from  the  curse  of  this  wretched  age  is 

The  following  is  Fichte’s  own  summing  up  of  the  different  epochs 
in  which,  he  thinks,  the  circle  of  human  development  is  completed  : 
“(i)  Die  Epoche  der  unbedingten  Herrschaft  der  Vernunft  durch  den 
Instinct  : der  Stand  der  Unschuld  des  Menschengeschlechts.  (2)  Die 
Epoche,  da  der  Vernunftinstinct  in  eine  ausserlich  zwingende  Auto- 
ritat  verwandelt  ist : Der  Stand  der  anhebenden  Sunde.  (3)  Die  Epoche 
der  Befreiung,  unmittelbar  von  der  gebietenden  Autoritat,  mittelbar 
von  der  Botmassigkeit  des  Vernunftinstincts  und  der  Vernunft  liber- 
haupt,  das  Zeitalter  der  volligen  Ungebundenheit  : der  Stand  der  voll- 
endeten  SUndhaftigkeit.  (4)  Die  Epoche  der  Vernunftwissenschaft, 
das  Zeitalter,  wo  die  Wahrheit  als  das  Hdchste  anerkannt  und  am 
hdchsten  geliebt  wird:  der  Stand  der  anhebenden  Rechtfertigung.  (5)  Die 
Epoche  der  Vernunftkunst,  das  Zeitalter,  da  die  Menschheit  mit  siche- 
rer  und  unfehlbarer  Hand  sich  selber  zum  getroffenen  Abdrucke  der 
Vernunft  aufbauet:  der  Stand  der  vollendeten  Rechtfertigung  und  Hei- 
ligungT  Of  these,  the  third  epoch  corresponds  to  the  present  age. 
Cf.  Grundzuge  I ; Werke  VII,  ii  f. — It  is  easy  to  see  in  this  philo- 
sophic construction  the  reflex  of  Schiller’s  Die  Kunstler, 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  439 

the  task  to  which  we  have  been  called/®  Reason  has  to 
do  only  with  the  universal  life,  which  is  mani- 
fested to  us  human  beings  as  the  life  of  the  race. 

If  reason  is  eliminated  from  human  affairs,  there  remains 
only  the  isolated  individual.  The  rational  life,  therefore, 
consists  in  this,  that  the  individual  should  forget  himself  in 
the  species,  sacrificing  his  existence  to  the  existence  of  the 
whole;  while  the  irrational  life  consists  in  this,  that  the  in- 
dividual should  not  consider  or  love  anything  but  himself 
and  should  devote  his  whole  existence  to  his  own  well- 
being. And  if  the  rational  is  the  good  and  the  irrational 
the  bad,  then  there  is  only  one  virtue:  to  forget  one’s  self; 
and  only  one  vice:  to  think  of  one’s  self.”  Here,  then,  is  the 
path  which  will  lead  us  to  the  goal.  Whatever  progress 
mankind  thus  far  has  made — for  there  is  progress  even  in 
decay, — whatever  blessings  of  civilization  we  possess,  it  has 
been  made  possible  only  through  the  privations,  the  suffer- 
ings, the  self-sacrifice  of  men  who,  before  our  time,  lived 
and  died  for  the  life  of  the  race.  Let  us  emulate  these 
men.  Let  every  one  of  us  be  a public  character.  Let  our 
philosophers  give  themselves  up  to  the  service  of  the  idea, 
our  poets  to  the  service  of  the  beautiful.  Let  them  be 
workers  for  mankind.  Let  them  be  conscious  that  it  is  not 
they  but  the  universal  spirit  in  them  which  speaks  through 
their  thought  or  their  song,  that  it  would  be  a sin  against 
the  spirit  to  degrade  their  talents  to  the  bondage  of  per- 
sonal ambition  and  vanity.  Let  our  political  life  be  freed 
from  despotism  and  monopoly;  let  our  social  institutions 
be  regulated  on  the  basis  of  a common  obligation  of  each 
to  all.  Let  the  working  classes  be  made  to  feel  that 
they  serve,  not  the  caprice  of  an  individual,  but  the  good  of 
the  whole,  and  this  only  so  far  as  the  whole  is  in  need  of 
them.”  Let  the  rich  live  in  such  a manner  as  to  be  able 
to  say®®:  ^ Not  a farthing  of  our  profits  is  spent  without 


Grundzuge  II  ; I,  c.  p.  34. 


Ib.  XV  ; /.  223. 


60  Ib.  224. 


440  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE, 


a benefit  to  higher  culture;  our  gain  is  the  gain  of  the  com- 
munity.* Let  the  ideal  of  a perfect  society  be  the  guiding 
motive  of  the  age. 

People  who  judge  others  by  their  own  selfishness  are  wont 
to  say  that  such  an  ideal  is  impracticable.”  But  what  en- 
titles these  persons  to  make  their  own  nature  a standard  of 
the  race  ? Truly,  the  noble  can  know  how  the  ignoble  feels; 
for  all  of  us  have  been  born  in  egotism  and  it  costs  struggle 
and  pain  to  rid  ouselves  of  this  old  Adam.  But  in  no  wise 
can  the  ignoble  know  how  the  noble  feels;  for  he  has  never 
reached  or  passed  through  the  latter*s  world,  while  the  noble 
has  indeed  passed  through  his.**  As  a matter  of  fact,” 
“ nothing  can  live  by  itself  and  for  itself,  everything  lives  in 
the  whole,  and  the  whole  continually  sacrifices  itself  to 
itself  in  order  to  live  anew.  This  is  the  law  of  life.  What- 
ever has  come  to  the  consciousness  of  existence  must  fall  a 
victim  to  the  progress  of  all  existence.  Only  there  is  a 
difference  whether  you  are  dragged  to  the  shambles  like  a 
beast  with  bandaged  eyes  or  whether,  in  full  and  joyous 
presentiment  of  the  life  which  will  spring  forth  from  your 
sacrifice,  you  offer  yourself  freely  on  the  altar  of  eternity.** 

Here  the  Kantian  doctrine  of  duty  has  become  a social 
ideal.  Here  it  has  assumed  the  shape  of  principles  which 
The  reorgani-  future  were  to  give  birth  to  the  re- 

zationof  form  legislation  of  Stein  and  Hardenberg,  the 

Prussia.  fmdl  abolition  of  serfdom,  the  establishment  of 

universal  military  service,  the  introduction  of  municipal 
self-government — in  short,  the  whole  work  of  emancipation 
and  reorganization,  by  which  the  Prussian  state,  between 
1806  and  1813,  succeeded  in”  “replacing  what  it  had  lost 

Grundziige  III  ; /.  c,  36. 

62  Ib,  l.c.  63. 

6^  When,  after  the  peace  of  Tilsit  which  cost  Prussia  all  her  terri- 
tory between  the  Elbe  and  the  Rhine,  it  was  suggested  to  Frederick 
William  III.  to  make  good  the  loss  of  Halle  University  by  establish-* 
ing  a university  at  Berlin,  he  replied  ; “ Das  ist  recht,  das  ist  bravl 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  441 

in  physical  resources  by  moral  strength  and  which  trans- 
formed it  from  a bureaucratic  machine  into  a national 
organism. 

No  man  did  nobler  service  in  helping  to  complete  this 
reorganization  than  Fichte  himself.  In  the  battle  of  Jena 
and  its  disastrous  consequences  he  saw  the  final  The  Keden  an 
breakdown  of  the  “ era  of  absolute  sinfulness,”  die  dentsche 
as  he  had  characterized  his  own  age  in  the 
lectures  of  1804.  Now  that  Prussia,  shorn  of  more  than 
half  her  territory,  weighed  down  by  the^  most  crushing 
war  indemnity,  lay  helpless  and  exhausted  at  the  feet 
of  her  oppressors,  he  felt  instinctively  that  the  worst  had 
come,  that  a new  order  of  things  had  begun,  that  a bet- 
ter age  was  dawning.  Now  he  raised  his  voice  again — 
not  to  lament  or  to  reprove,  but  to  give  courage  and  hope. 
From  the  very  depth  of  national  misery  he  pointed  forward 
to  an  era  of  national  triumphs.  Under  the  very  eyes  of  the 
French  authorities,  surrounded  by  spies  and  sycophants,  in 
the  full  consciousness  that  by  speaking  out  he  should  risk 
his  own  life,  he  did  speak  out:  he  delivered  his  Addresses 
to  the  German  Nation^  holding  up  to  his  countrymen  the 
ideal  of  a public  education,  which  was  bound  to  become — 
as  indeed  it  has  become — an  instrument  of  political  unity 
and  greatness. 

What  were  the  essential  features  of  this  new  The  new  edn- 
education  ? Wherein  lay  its  reorganizing  power  ? 

Ever  since  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  the  main  tendency  of 
German  thought  had  been  in  the  direction  of  individual 
freedom  and  culture.  In  Kant  and  Herder,  in  Goethe  and 
Schiller,  this  movement  had  attained  its  climax:  the  ideal 
of  a perfect  personality  had  become  so  comprehensive 
as  to  embrace  the  ideal  of  a perfect  society.  But  no 


der  Staat  muss  durch  geistige  Kr^fte  ersetzen  was  er  an  physischen 
verloren  hato”  Cf.  Hausser,  D.  Gesch,  v.  Tode  Friedr,  d,  Gr,  b,  z, 
Grundg  d,  d.  Bundes  III,  174. 


442  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


sooner  had  the  movement  thus  in  the  great  achievements 
of  the  classic  writers  attained  to  its  most  exalted  form, 
than,  through  the  wretchedness  of  the  existing  political 
conditions,  it  was  thrown  back  to  the  wilfulness  and  anarchy 
of  Romanticism;  and  Romanticism  in  its  turn  contributed 
to  bring  about  the  complete  disintegration  of  the  German 
empire  in  the  struggle  with  Napoleon. 

Here  Fichte  steps  forward  to  demand  a radical  change  in 

the  guiding  principles  of  national  life.  The  principle  of  the 

^ , p old  education — thus  he  declares — was  individu- 

Demand  oi  a . 

new  public  alisrn.  Its  fruits  are  to  be  seen  in  the  loss  of  our 

spirit.  political  independence,  in  the  very  extinction  of 

the  name  of  Germany  itself.  If  we  are  not  to  cease  exist- 
ing altogether,  if  we  are  to  be  a nation  once  more,  we  must 
create  an  entirely  new  public  spirit,  we  must  train  our  youth 
in  continual  and  unconditional  surrender  to  the  state.  The 
principle  of  the  new  education  must  be  collectivism. 

Not  as  though  the  new  education  were  to  suppress  per- 
sonality. On  the  contrary,  it  will  raise  personality  to  a 

nobler  plane.  It  will  stimulate  the  freest  indi- 
Heigbtemng  yidual  activity  by  depriving  it  of  selfish  motives. 

01  pBrsonSflityi 

From  early  youth  the  pupil  will  be  made  to 
feel  that  he  belongs  to  a community  which  has  a claim  on 
his  best  talents  and  his  highest  aspirations.  He  will  be 
made  to  know  that  superior  advantages  only  entail  greater 
responsibility,  that  work  spent  in  acquiring  individual  skill 
or  knowledge  simply  means  more  work  to  be  spent  for  the 
common  good.®*  He  will  be  imbued  with  that  pure  love  for 
intellectual  activity  which  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
success  or  power  or  well-being,  but  rejoices  in  the  activity 
itself.®®  He  will  be  filled  with  that  supreme  desire  to  mani- 


Cf.  the  end  of  the  second  speech;  Werke  VII,  294  f. — That  Fichte 
in  his  educational  views  was  influenced  by  Pestalozzi  is  well  known. 

‘^Dass  man  um  seiner  Erhaltunof  und  seines  Wohlseins  willen  im 
Leben  sich  regen  und  bewegen  kdnne,  muss  er  gar  nicht  hdren,  und 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  443 


fest  in  himself  the  moral  order  of  the  world,  before  which 
egotism  drops  to  the  ground  like  a withered  leaf.”®®  He 
will  be  brought  to  find  God  in  the  ever-present  inner  com- 
mand to  act  from  no  other  impulse  than  this:  to  make  his 
life  a germ  of  the  universal  life.®’ 

“Thus  far  mankind  has  grown  as  it  happened  to  grow.  This 
growing  by  chance  is  now  at  an  end.  For  just  where  mankind 
has  developed  the  farthest,  it  has  been  reduced  to  naught.  If  it 
is  not  to  remain  in  this  naught,  it  must  make  itself  over  again, 
it  must  create  its  own  future.  To  become,  by  fr^e  and  conscious 
effort,  what  it  originally  was  by  nature  and  unconsciously,  this  is 
the  goal  of  the  human  race.  It  is  for  our  time  and  our  nation  to 
begin  this  conscious  striving  for  the  goal,  and  thus  to  be  a guide 
and  a model  for  all  future  ages  and  all  other  nations.” 

And  now,  with  that  sublime  indifference  to  visible  facts 
which  makes  the  true  seer,  Fichte  tells  these  downtrodden 
and  humiliated  Germans,  as  sixty-three  years 
later  Victor  Hugo  was  to  tell  the  vanquished 
French,  that  it  is  they  on  whom  the  future  of 
the  world  depends.  They  are  the  only  people  of  Europe 
which  has  preserved  its  nationality  unadulterated,  the  only- 
people  which  possesses  a truly  national  language  and  liter- 
ature, the  only  people  which  believes  in  the  spirit,  in  the 
infinite,  in  the  divineness  of  man,  they  are  the  only  people 
worthy  of  this  name;  they  are  the  people,  the  Urvolk.^^  If 
they  are  lost,  all  is  lost.  If  the  nation  which  has  given  to 
the  world  the  freedom  of  conscience  and  the  freedom  of 
thought  is  to  be  extinguished,  then  the  light  of  the  world 
will  be  extinguished,  all  history  will  have  been  in  vain. 
Countrymen  of  Luther,  countrymen  of  Kant,  shall  it  be 
thus?’® 

ebensowenig,  dass  man  um  deswillen  lerne,  oder  dass  das  Lernen 
dazu  etwas  helfen  kdnne.”  Second  speech  ; /.  c,  291. 

First  speech  ; /.  c.  275.  Third  speech  ; /.  c.  304  f. 

Ib,  306.  Cf.  speeches  4-7. 

Cf.  the  peroration  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  speech  (/.  c.  488 
ff.),  one  of  the  few  oratorical  masterpieces  of  the  world’s  literature. 


444  SOCIAL  FOKCES  IN  GEFMAN  LITEFATUEE. 


One  might  say  that  the  whole  trend  of  German  history 
from  1806  to  1870  has  answered  this  question  with  one  con- 
tinuous, irresistible  No.”  But  of  all  the  num- 
University  of  ]3erless  individual  voices  of  which  this  great 

Berlin.  . a XT  „ • 1 

collective  No  is  made  up,  none  perhaps 
speaks  louder  and  more  impressively  than  the  record  of 
Berlin  University  during  the  first  few  years  of  its  exist- 
ence. In  the  winter  semester  of  1810,  the  year  in  which 
the  Prussian  Government  founded  the  University  with  the 
avowed  purpose  of  making  it  a centre  of  the  new  patriotic 
spirit,  the  enrolment  lists  showed  an  attendance  of  some 
250  students.  In  the  winter  semester  of  1811-12  there  was 
a matriculation  of  228;  in  the  summer  semester  of  1813,  of 
28.  The  rest  were  in  the  war.*^^ 

2.  The  Renaissance  of  the  German  Past. 

Nothing  shows  more  clearly  from  what  deep  and  tenacious 
roots  modern  German  unity  has  sprung  than  the  way  in  which 
National  nearly  two  centuries  the  image  of  the  German 

dreams  in  the  past  appeared  and  reappeared  in  the  minds  of 
an^Sghte^^^  isolated  thinkers  and  seers,  until  at  the  beginning 
centuries.  of  the  nineteenth  century  it  passed  over  into 
the  mind  of  a whole  generation.  Surrounded  by  the  misery 
and  degradation  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  Opitz  and  his  as- 
sociates endeavoured  to  revive  the  purity  of  the  ‘^old  and 
illustrious  ” German  tongue,  and  Moscherosch  dreamed  of 
King  Ariovistus  holding  court  with  his  sturdy  knights  in  the 
midst  of  a degenerate  posterity.’”  At  a time  when  the 

Cf.  R.  Kopke,  E.  GrUndg  d.  Kgl.  Fr.  With,  Universitdt  z,  Ber- 
lin p.  297.  The  figures  given  in  the  text  comprise  only  the  imma- 
triculated  students.  The  total  number  of  hearers  was  much  larger. 
In  the  winter  of  1812  to  T3,  for  instance,  there  were  more  than  600 
hearers  ; and  more  than  300  persons  attended  a single  course  on  the 
Nibelungenlied,  Cf.  L.  Geiger,  Berliner  Analekten  in  Euphorion  I, 
376. 

Cf.  supra  p.  201  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  445 

avarice  of  German  princes  caused  their  subjects  to  be 
slaughtered  on  the  battlefields  of  the  American  Revolution, 
Klopstock  sang  of  Hermann  and  Thusnelda.  At  a time 
when  the  depraved  elegance  of  rococo  art  held  the  na- 
tional genius  in  its  deadly  grasp,  Herder  pointed  to  the 
simple  truthfulness  and  freedom  of  popular  song,  and  the 
young  Goethe  revelled  in  the  grandeur  of  Strassburg  cathe- 
dral. And  now,  at  the  very  time  when  it  seemed  as  though 
the  German  nation  had  ceased  to  exist,  when  through  the 
final  dissolution  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empfre  the  last  de- 
crepit forms  of  the  mediaeval  state  were  swept  away,  the 
Romanticists  were  led  to  the  rediscovery  of  the  true  medi- 
aeval spirit. 

The  Romanticists,  as  we  have  seen,  were  drawn  toward 
the  Middle  Ages  by  the  same  desire  which  led  the  Classi- 
cists to  ancient  Greece,  the  desire  to  flee  from  an  ,,  x-  i i 
. ^ National  ele- 

actual  present  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  no  ment  in  early 
room  for  great  and  free  personalities,  to  an  ideal  I^oiiianticisni. 
past.  However  fictitious  and  illusive  these  dreams  of  a per- 
fect antiquity — whether  classic  or  romantic — for  the  most 
part  were,  they  could  not  fail  to  create  emotions  which 
needed  only  the  right  opportunity  to  convert  themselves 
into  patriotic  deeds. 

Nothing,  for  instance,  could  be  more  un-Grecian  than  the 
sentimental  Classicism  pervading  Holderlin’s  Hyperion 
(1797-99).  Nothing  could  be  more  inactive  Hoiderlin’s 
than  the  aesthetic  revelry  in  which  this  late-born  Hyperion, 
offspring  of  an  heroic  race  consumes  himself,  hunting  for- 
ever after  an  ideal  which  is  buried  under  the  ruins  of  the 
centuries,  longing  for  ever  for  a happiness  which  he  would 
have  no  strength  to  bear.  Yet,  unmanly  and  un-Grecian  as 
this  young  Greek  undoubtedly  is,  there  is  in  his  aesthetic 
speculations  something  of  the  spirit  which  breeds  heroes. 
He  despises  his  time  because  it  knows  nothing  but  egotism 
and  slavish  care.*'®  He  sees  in  the  beautiful  the  breath  of 


Cf.  especially  Sammtl,  Werke  ed,  Schwab  I,  2,/.  142  ff* 


44^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


life  which  expands  the  hearts  and  makes  them  capable  of 
self-sacrifice.'^^  He  feels  that  ‘Svithout  freedom  there  is 
universal  death  that whatever  lives  cannot  have  been 
created,  must  in  its  germ  be  of  divine  nature,  raised  above 
all  external  force  and  artifice,  inviolable,  eternal.”  And  the 
one  great  effort  to  which  he  himself  rises  is  inspired  by  the 
same  cause  for  which  two  decades  later  all  Europe  hoped 
and  trembled:  the  liberation  of  Hellas  from  the  Turkish 
yoke. 

“ O Diotima,”  he  writes  to  his  beloved  one  from  the  scene  of 
ward®  “all  melancholy  is  gone  and  my  mind  is  firm  and  quick 
now  that  I live  in  a hopeful  activity.  I rise  with  the  sun.  I go 
where  in  the  shade  of  the  forest  my  warriors  lie,  and  greet  the 
thousands  of  bright  eyes  which  open  before  me  with  wild  joyful- 
ness. A waking  army!  I know  not  its  like,  and  all  life  in  city 
and  town  is  a swarm  of  bees  compared  with  it.  My  squad  gathers 
round  me,  and  I talk  to  them  of  better  days;  and  their  eyes  shine 
at  the  thought  of  the  covenant  which  is  to  unite  our  people;  and 
the  glorious  image  of  a state  of  freemen  dawns  upon  them. 
Each  for  all  and  all  for  each!  O Diotima,  to  see  how  all  their 
pulses  beat  more  strongly,  how  the  gloomy  forehead  unfolds 
itself  to  hope,  to  stand  thus  in  the  midst  of  men,  surrounded  by 
faith  and  zeal,  that  is  more  than  to  behold  earth  and  heaven  and 
sea  in  all  their  glory.” 

If  the  image  of  the  greatness  of  ancient  Greece  could  stir 
even  a morbidly  subjective  nature  like  Holderlin’s  into  the 
The  gradual  conception  of  a national  cause  before  which  all 
coming  into  individual  hopes  and  fears  dwindle  into  nothing, 
true^MiddE  surprising  that  the  memory  of  the  German 

Ages.  past,  once  having  dawned  upon  the  imagination 

of  the  Romanticists,  should  gradually  have  freed  itself  from 
the  capricious  interpretations  of  a subjective  fancy,  until  at 
last  it  expanded  into  the  vision  of  a mighty  popular  organ- 
ism, inspired  with  a common  thought,  guided  by  a common 
will,  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  common  ideals.  The  gradual 


Z.  c.  145. 


Ib.  131. 


■^6  Jb,  103  f, 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  447 


unfolding  of  this  vision  forms  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  most  fascinating  chapters  in  the  history  of  Romanticism. 

We  have  felt  justified  in  calling"^’  the  Middle  Ages  of 
the  early  Romanticists  the  Eldorado  of  an  overwrought  and 
uncontrolled  imagination.  But  we  should  fail  to  under- 
stand rightly  even  early  Romanticism  if  we  failed  to  see 
that  with  all  their  subjectivity  and  wilfulness  there  was  in 
such  men  as  Novalis,  Tieck,  Wackenroder,  the  Schlegels, 
an  instinctive  longing  for  a new  corporate  consciousness; 
that  through  all  their  aberrations  and  eccentricities  they 
were  dimly  groping  for  a new  binding  faith.  And  if  they 
did  not,  like  Schleiermacher  and  Fichte,  look  toward  the 
future  for  the  coming  of  the  new  Jerusalem,  but  rather 
sought  for  it  in  the  traditions  of  the  past,  they  too  were 
workers  in  the  reconstruction  of  modern  society.  They 
restored  the  Catholic  church,  the  guardian  of  popular 
custom  and  belief,  to  its  rightful  place  in  the  national  con- 
sciousness; they  brought  back  to  life  the  grand  figures 
of  the  old  national  epics;  they  ushered  in  a new  era  of 
truly  national  poetry  and  art.  They,  in  a word,  made 
Herder’s  conception  of  national  individuality,  as  a basis 
of  all  higher  life,  a power  in  modern  German  civiliza- 
tion. 

Only  a blind  Protestant  partisanship  can  deny  or  deplore 
the  fact  that  through  the  Romantic  movement  Catholicism 
has  once  more  become  a living  factor  in  modern 
thought.  The  intellectual  development  of  Ger- 
many  during  the  three  centuries  following  the 
religious  Reformation,  as  we  have  seen  again  and  again,  had 
been  a continual  process  of  individualization.  It  was  un- 
avoidable that  this  process  should  have  brought  about  a 
continually  widening  gap  between  the  educated  and  the 
uneducated,  that  the  cultivated  few  should  have  more  and 
more  lost  touch  with  the  broad  masses  of  the  people.  In 


Cf.  supra  p.  424  ff. 


448  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

the  erratic  flights  of  early  Romanticism  we  saw  the  last  and 
most  baneful  results  of  this  disintegrating  tendency;  but 
we  also  saw  how  the  very  excesses  and  absurdities  of  Ro- 
manticism led  to  a reaction  against  the  whole  individualistic 
view  of  life,  how  in  Schleiermacher’s  pantheism,  in  Fichte’s 
socialistic  dreams,  there  arose  a new,  collectivistic  ideal. 
The  return  of  the  Romanticists  to  the  old  popular  faith,  the 
revival  of  Catholicism,  is  only  another  phase  of  this  same 
collectivistic  reaction. 

‘‘In  former  times,”  thus  Wackenroder,  the  ‘art-loving 

friar,’  the  youthful  forerunner  of  Ruskin,  sums 
■Wackenroder.  , . . . . * tp  ..  . 

up  his  view  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  former 

times  it  was  the  custom  to  look  at  life  as  a beautiful  art  or 
craft  to  which  all  men  profess  allegiance.  God  was  thought 
of  as  the  master-workman,  baptism  as  the  apprentice’s 
indenture,  our  earthly  pilgrimage  as  the  travelling-time  of 
journeymen.  Religion  was  to  the  men  of  those  ages  a book 
containing  all  the  laws  and  rules  of  their  trade,  a com- 
pendium of  all  knowledge.  Without  religion  life  appeared 
to  them  only  as  a wild  disorderly  game,  as  an  aimless  dart- 
ing to  and  fro  of  weavers’  shuttles  which  produces  no  fabric. 
Religion  was  their  staff  and  stay  in  all  events,  great  or  small; 
it  gave  a deep  meaning  even  to  the  trivial;  it  was  a magic 
tincture  in  which  all  things  of  this  world  could  be  dissolved; 
it  spread  a mild,  uniform,  harmonious  light  over  the  con- 
fused destinies  of  existence.  Thus  men  lived  their  lives 
slowly  and  deliberately,  step  by  step,  ever  mindful  of  a 
joyous  presence,  every  moment  being  precious  and  full  of 
weight.  And  when  at  last  the  great  Master  called  them 

Cf.  the  Schilderung  wie  die  alien  deutschen  Kiinstler  gelebt  haben, 
a posthumous  essay  of  Wackenroder’s,  incorporated  by  his  friend 
Tieck  into  the  Phaniasieen  iiber  die  Kunst  (1799);  DNL.  CXLV,  6 f. 
— The  Herzensergiessungen  eines  kunst liebenden  Klosterbruders  alluded 
to  in  the  text  appeared  in  1797,  a year  before  Wackenroder’s  death. 
For  an  analysis  of  this  work  cf.  H.  Wolfflin  in  Studien  zur  Litieraiur- 
gesch.f  Michael  Bernays  gewidmet,  /.  61  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  449 


from  their  workshops,  they  surrendered  themselves  and  all 
their  tasks,  dissolved  in  holy  thoughts,  serenely  into  his 
hands.  And  God  made  use  of  their  completed  labours  to 
further  his  own  mysterious  design:  for  out  of  all  the  mil- 
lions of  lives  that  have  left  this  earth,  he  builds,  beyond  the 
blue  firmament,  a new,  more  beautiful  world,  nearer  to  his 
throne,  where  all  that  is  good  will  find  its  place.^^ 

Here  we  have  the  key  to  the  understanding  of  the  charm 
which  Catholicism  exerted  upon  the  Romanticists.  From 
the  precipitous  heights  of  spiritual  culture,  frdhi  The  popular 
the  lonely  mountain-peaks  of  philosophic  specu-  element  iu 
lation,  to  which  the  search  for  the  ideal  of  per-  f*atholicism. 
sonality  had  led  them,  they  caught  a new  sight  of  the  popu- 
lar life  below,  its  simplicity,  its  contentment,  its  quiet  in- 
dustriousness, and  its  concord  with  itself.  And  they  could 
hardly  be  in  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  source  whence  all  these 
blessings  had  flowed.  Even  in  those  parts  of  the  empire 
where  Catholicism  had  been  entirely  superseded  by  the 
Protestant  faith,  even  there,  whatever  there  was  left  of  po- 
pular tradition  in  festive  customs  and  symbolic  lore,  was 
essentially  Catholic.  How  much  more  was  this  the  case  in 
those  parts  where  the  old  religion  was  still  a bond  of  common 
life;  where  venerable  cathedrals  were  still  the  scenes  of 
priestly  pomp  and  popular  concourse;  where  the  hilltops 
were  still  crowned  with  hospitable  monasteries;  and  where 
the  welcome  sound  of  the  Angelus  at  eventide  would  still  be 
felt  by  high  and  low  as  a symbol  of  spiritual  kinship! 

It  was  this  consonance  of  its  institutional  life  with  the 
popular  instinct  which  attracted  the  Romanticists  in  Catholi- 
cism, not  the  intricacies  of  its  theology.  It  was  the  beauti- 
ful symbolism  of  its  forms,  the  serenity  of  its  heaven,  the 
pantheistic  character  of  its  mythology,  the  deep  sense  of  na- 
ture pervading  its  legends,  its  sympathy  with  all  that  warms 
the  heart  and  fosters  the  feeling  of  human  fellowship.  And 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  most  of  what  is  best  in  Ro- 


45^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IH  GERMAH  LITERATURE, 

mantic  literature  and  art  bears  the  stamp  of  this  truly  human 
Catholicity. 

Among  the  earlier  Romantic  poets  there  is  none  who  has 
given  as  noble  an  expression  to  this  spirit  as  Novalis,  espe- 
Novalis’s  cially  in  the  essay  entitled  Christianity  or  Europe 
G-eistliclie  and  in  his  Spiritual  Songs  (1799).  Insufficient 
Lieder,  ^^g  j^jg  k:nowledge  of  historical  facts,  crude 

as  were  his  conceptions  about  the  part  played  by  the  Re- 
formation in  the  development  of  the  modern  mind/®  he  felt 
instinctively  that  the  mission  of  Catholicism  for  the  advance- 
ment of  higher  culture  was  by  no  means  ended.  And  from 
the  imbuing  of  its  traditional  forms  with  the  freedom  of  mod- 
ern pantheistic  thought  he  hoped  for  the  birth  of  a purified  re- 
ligion which  should  fulfil  Schleiermacher’s  dream  of  a recon- 
ciliation between  knowledge  and  belief;  which  should  unite 
the  thinker  and  the  poet,  the  educated  and  the  uneducated, 
in  common  worship  of  the  beautiful.  A modern  Angelus 
Silesius,  he  saw  in  Christ  an  image  of  the  universal  life,  the 
Holy  Communion  he  greeted  as  a mysterious  fusion  of  his 
own  soul  with  the  world-spirit,  the  Virgin  was  to  him  a 
symbol  of  the  transfigured  existence  for  which  he  had 
always  been  pining.  In  the  poetic  representation  of  such 
conceptions  as  these  Novalis  reaches  the  climax  of  his  art. 
For  here  his  imagination  does  not  roam  about  unfettered 
in  the  wonderland  of  capricious  conceits;  here  it  is  guided 
and  chastened  by  the  tradition  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  remains  essentially  fresh  and  indi- 
vidual. Here  the  sacred  figures  of  the  past  have  again 
returned  to  life.  The  Saviour  of  the  world  once  more  looks 
at  us  benignly  from  his  mother’s  knee;  once  more  we  live 
through  the  agony  of  the  cross;  once  more  we  rejoice  to  see 
the  stone  removed  from  the  grave.  And  yet  it  is  not  a simple 
traditional  piety  that  speaks  from  these  poems.  It  is  the 
craving  of  a highly  cultivated  individual  to  feel  himself  at 


Cf,  supra  p.  423. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  45 1 


one  with  the  belief  of  his  ancestors,  to  see  the  old  legend  in 
a new  light,  to  find  in  it  a poetic  confirmation  of  his  own 
philosophic  view  of  life.  The  mythical  event  has  here  be- 
come an  inner  vision.  Catholicism  lends  its  symbolic  lan- 
guage to  the  feelings  of  a pantheist. 

Ich  sehe  dich  in  tausend  Bildern, 

Maria,  lieblich  ausgedruckt, 

Doch  keins  von  alien  kann  dich  schildern» 

Wie  meine  Seele  dich  erblickt. 

Ich  weiss  nur,  dass  der  Welt  Getummel 
Seitdem  mir  wie  ein  Traum  verweht, 

Und  ein  unnennbar  siisser  Himmel 
Mir  ewig  im  Gemiite  steht. 

Rarely  has  the  old  and  the  new  been  more  happily 
blended,  rarely  has  a traditional  conception  been  more 
completely  merged  into  the  stream  of  deepest  spiritual  ex- 
perience, than  in  these  wonderful  lines.®® 

In  a less  degree  than  any  of  the  founders  of  Romanti- 
cism was  Ludwig  Tieck  able  to  divest  himself  of  the 
fantastic  wilfulness  which  formed  so  large  a , 

jLi6c^  8iS  Ill- 

part  of  this  whole  movement.  The  well-nigh  terpreterof 
boundless  versatility  of  his  imagination  was  “lediaBval  life, 
hardly  ever  made  to  give  itself  up  without  reserve  to  a 
great  idea  or  a serious  purpose.  Even  the  best  of  his 
productions  fail  to  create  that  deep  and  lasting  impression 
which  we  receive  from  the  contact  with  a truly  original  and 
creative  mind.  He  was  essentially  a virtuoso.  His  poetry 
is  chamber-music  even  where  it  affects  the  out-of-door 
character  of  popular  song.  It  is  a conscious  playing  with 
artistic  forms  rather  than  the  self-revelation  of  an  inspired 
soul.  A man  who  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  turn  so 
homely  and  sincere  a fairy-tale  as  Puss  in  Boots  into  a 
farcical  satire  of  the  modern  stage  (1797),"^  or  modest 


Geistl.  Lieder  XV;  Schriften®  II,  43. 

Der  gestiefelte  Kater^  ein  Kindermarchen  in  3 Akten;  first  ed.  in 
vol.  2 of  the  Volksmdrchen  reprinted  in  vol.  2 of  the  Fhantasus 


45 2 SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


little  Red  Riding  Hood  into  a priggish  young  damsel  ; 
who  would  have  us  accept  the  effeminate  culture  of  his 
Sternbald  (1798),  with  its  endless  sing-song  and  art  dilet- 
tanteism,  as  a picture  of  the  rugged  German  life  of  the 
sixteenth  century®^;  who  was  capable  of  deluding  himself 
into  the  belief  that  he  had  faithfully  portrayed  the  mediaeval 
legend  in  his  Genoveva  (1800)®^  or  Octavianus  (1804),®®  with 

{Schriften  V,  161  ff.).  The  main  point  of  this  farce  consists  in  this 
that  the  audience  continually  interrupts  the  action  of  the  play  by  com- 
ments, criticisms,  and  noisy  demonstrations,  thus  unconsciously  be- 
traying its  own  prejudice,  ignorance,  and  lack  of  literary  insight. 

Leben  und  Tod  des  kleinen  Rothkdppchens  in  vol.  2 of  the  Roman- 
tische  Dichtungen  (1799.  1800);  Schr,  II,  327  ff.  Imagine  the  little 
girl,  such  as  we  know  her  from  the  naive  fairy  tale,  indulging  in  the 
following  rationalistic  reflection  (/.  c.  356),  occasioned  by  the  fact  that 
another  little  girl,  from  the  familiar  daisy  oracle,  has  prophesied  her 
early  death  : 

Doch  leb  ich  wohl  langer  wie  du  mit  Lust. 

Denn  man  sieht,  ich  hab  eine  bessere  Brust  { 

Drum  sind  die  Haare  so  weggeflogen. 

Meine  Mutter  hat  mich  zu  gut  erzogen, 

Als  dass  ich  an  so  was  glauben  sollte. 

Ich  wiisste  auch  nicht,  wie  es  die  Blume  wissen  wollte ; 

Erst  ist  sie  gelb,  und  wird  dann  greis, 

Wie  ein  kindischer  Mann,  der  von  sich  nicht  weiss  ; 

Da  steht  sie  am  Wege,  und  kdmmt  ein  Wind, 

Ihr  alle  Haare  ausgerissen  sind. 

Tieck  never  got  over  the  effects  of  his  early  Berlin  education. 

Franz  Siernbalds  Wanderungen,  eine  altdeutsche  GescJiichte 
DNL.  CXLV,  105  ff.  A second,  revised  edition  Schr.  XVI.  Cf.  the 
telling  characterization  of  this  novel  by  Caroline  Schlegel  (Waitz,  Ca- 
roline 219):  ‘‘Viele  liebliche  Sonnenaufgange  und  Fruhlinge  sind 
wieder  da  ; Tag  und  Nacht  wechseln  fleissig,  Sonne,  Mond  und  Sterne 
ziehen  auf,  die  Vdglein  singen  ; es  ist  das  alles  sehr  artig,  aber  doch 
leer,  und  ein  kleinlicher  Wechsel  von  Stimmungen  und  Gefiihlen  im 
Sternbald,  kleinlich  dargestellt.” 

Leben  und  Tod  der  heiligen  Genoveva  ; Schr.  II,  i ff.  Nearly  the 
whole  plot  of  this  drama,  instead  of  being  acted,  is  related  by  St. 
Boniface,  who  introduces  himself  in  the  beginning  as  .a  sort  of 
Chorus  : “ Ich  bin  der  wackre  Bonifacius”  etc. 

Kaiser  Octavianusy  ein  Lusispiel  in  2 Theilen ; Schr.  I.  This 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  453 


their  musical  potpourris  and  decorative  trickeries,  with 
their  continual  change  from  archaic  clumsiness  to  modern 
sentimentality,  with  their  incessant  swinging  to  and  fro 
from  the  Miracle  Play  to  Shakspere,  from  Calderon  to  Hans 
Sachs,  from  Petrarch  to  the  Puppet-show, — such  a man 
cannot  be  said  to  have  been  even  a reproductive  genius 
of  the  very  highest  order.  With  all  this,  we  respect  in 
Tieck  one  of  those  subtle  minds,  whose  peculiar  office  it 
seems  to  be  to  interpret  one  age  to  another.  Whatever 
his  shortcomings  as  an  artist,  his  services  as  a poetic  ex- 
positor of  the  Middle  Ages  cannot  be  disputed.  If  No- 
valis  resuscitated  Catholicism  as  an  organ  of  profound 
religious  feeling,  we  owe  to  Tieck  the  discovery  of  what 
may  be  called  the  worldly  side  of  Catholicism — its  affinity 
with  the  popular  fancy,  its  wealth  of  passion,  instinct,  sen- 
suousness, the  artistic  quality  of  its  rites  and  legends,  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  life  engendered  by  it. 

It  is  indeed  well-nigh  impossible  to  glance  over  the  pages 
of  any  of  Tieck’s  writings  from  the  Volks?ndrchen  (1797)  to 
Phantasus  (1812),®^^  without  finding  everywhere  abundant 
evidence  of  an  extraordinary  power  of  conjuring  up  at 
least  the  outward  show,  the  stage  scenery,  as  it  were,  of  an 
age,  at  one  with  itself,  swayed  by  common  religious  emo- 
tions, assured  of  the  reality  of  an  unseen  yet  ever-present 
and  all-pervading  spiritual  existence.  His  is  a world  of 
small  distances  and  short  perspectives  but  endless  possibi- 

‘ drama'  consists  of  ten  acts  ! The  part  of  Chorus  is  here  taken 
chiefly  by  an  allegorical  figure,  * Die  Romanze,'  who  at  the  end  of  the 
prologue  {/.  c.  33)  conjures  up  the  mediseval  world  with  the  words,  so 
often  repeated  since : 

Mondbeglanzte  Zaubernacht, 

Die  den  Sinn  gefangen  halt, 

Wundervolle  Marchenwelt, 

Steig  auf  in  der  alten  Pracht ! 

Tieck's  last  period,  in  which  he  returned  to  the  cultivation  of  the 
modern  novel,  cannot  here  be  considered.  Cf.  J.  Minor,  Tieck  als 
Novellendichier ; Akad.  Bldttn'  1,  120  ff. 


454  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


lities.  A bluish  haze  surrounds  everything.  As  in  a dream, 
everything  seems  to  be  alive.  The  brook  sobs,  the  trees 
shudder,  the  trailing  clouds  mysteriously  beckon  us  to 
follow,  the  silence  of  the  forest”"  tells  wondrous  tales,  the 
rocks  and  cliffs  stretch  out  invisible  hands  and  utter  sounds 
of  nameless  woe.  The  minds  of  men  are  full  of  forebodings, 
they  seem  to  be  oppressed  with  the  mass  of  sensations 
crowding  in  upon  them.  Sometimes  a man  will  leave 
everything,  his  home,  his  country,  his  dear  ones,  and  wander 
off  in  search  of  he  knows  not  what.  For  years  he  may  live 
peacefully  and  quietly  in  his  new  surroundings.  Nobody 
will  inquire  into  his  past,  nobody  will  wonder  at  the  strange- 
ness of  his  habits,  for  every  one  might  at  a given  opportu- 
nity act  just  as  strangely  as  he.  All  of  a sudden,  a fleeting 
vision,  a chance  word,  a bird’s  cry,  the  sight  of  a certain  sign, 
starts  him  up.  The  spirit  has  taken  hold  of  him  again,  and 
will  probably  keep  hold  of  him  and  drag  him  to  the  grave.®’^ 
Dark  powers  dwell  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  enticing  the 
children  of  men  into  their  enchanted  realm.  But  even  at 
the  entrance  of  the  ‘ Venusberg ' there  stands  the  faithful 
Eckart,  warning  the  wayward  and  leading  them  back  to 
light.”®  And  over  all  the  lust  and  sin  and  death  of  this 
world  there  is  shed  a glow  from  above  : the  church  with  its 
wealth  of  grace  and  beauty,  with  the  prayers  of  its  saints 
and  the  heroism  of  its  warriors,  with  the  inspiration  of  its 
poets,  its  artists  and  composers,  lends  a foretaste  of  heaven 
even  to  this  earthly  life,  and  unites  the  souls  of  men  in  the 
longing  for  the  infinite.  * 

What  a difference  between  this  world  of  Tieck's  and  that  of 
an  eighteenth-century  rationalist,  such  as,  for  instance,  Les- 

Tieck  has  coined  the  word  ‘ Waldeinsamkeit.’  Cf.  Schriften  IV,  152. 

Cf.  especially  the  stories  Der  blonde  Eckbert  {Schr,  IV,  144  ff.) 
and  Der  Runenb erg  {ib.  214  ff.),  and  the  exquisite  characterization  of 
Tieck’s  style,  as  manifested  in  these  stories,  by  Heine,  Die  romant. 
Schule  II  ( Werke  ed.  Elster  V,  287). 

Cf.  the  story  Der  getreue  Eckart  vnd  der  Tannenhduser  ; Schr 

IV,  173  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  455 

sing!  How  much  less  clear  the  air,  how  much  more  hemmed 
in  the  intellectual  view,  how  much  more  vague  inflnence 
and  confused  the  outlines  of  things!  But  on  the  upon  later 
other  hand,  what  a deepening  of  spiritual  in-  Romanticism, 
sight,  what  a widening  of  the  imagination,  what  a quicken- 
ing of  the  emotions  has  taken  place  ; how  much  nearer 
seems  the  heart  of  nature,  how  much  richer  are  the  colours 
of  life  ! We  feel  that  a new  age  has  opened,  that  another 
Renaissance  has  dawned.  And  if  we  cannot  be  surprised 
that  in  its  trail  there  should  have  appeared  the  lurid  figures 
of  the  ‘Fate  Tragedy,’®^  the  spooks  and  doubles  of  an 
Amadeus  Hoffmann,®"  and  all  the  other  reactionary  ghosts 
of  the  palmy  days  of  Metternich, — we  also  understand  why 
there  should  have  arisen  from  it  gentle  fairies  like  Fouque’s 
Undine  (i8ii),  good-natured  pessimists  like  Chamisso’s 
Schlemihl  (1814),  naive  children  of  the  people  like  Bren- 
tano’s  Honest  Casperl  and  Fair  Annerl  (1817),  amiable 
dreamers  like  Wilhelm  Muller's  Waldhornist  (1821)  or 
Eichendorffs  Taugenichts  (1826);  why  it  should  have 
given  rise,  in  Raimund’s  harmless  fairy-land  pieces  (1823- 
33),  to  the  revival  of  a truly  popular  stage;  why  it  should 
have  unloosed  the  deepest  chords  of  Beethoven's  soul 
and  called  forth  a wealth  of  melody  from  Weber  and  Schu- 
bert; why  it  should  have  inspired  artists  like  Overbeck, 

Cf.  Das  Schicksalsdrama  ed.  J.  Minor;  DNL.  CLI.  The  volume 
contains  among  other  selections  Zacharias  Werner’s  Der  vierundzwan- 
zigstg  Fedruar  {1^0%  printed  1815),  M\l\\ne,x*s  Die  Sc huld  and 

Houwald’s  Der  Leuchtthurm  ( 1819  ; printed  1821).  Cf.  also  J.  Minor, 
Die  Sckicksalstragoedie  in  ihren  Hauptvertretern.  Even  in  that  strange 
mixture  of  bombast,  forced  naturalness,  and  fantastic  grandeur  which 
marks  the  dramas  of  Christian  Grabbe  i^Don  Juan  und  Faust  1829; 
DNL,  CLXI)  the  influence  of  Tieck  can  easily  be  traced. 

This  refers  of  course  to  such  works  as  the  P hantasiestiicke  in  Cal- 
lots  Manier  (1814  ; the  best  of  them  Der  goldene  Topf),  or  Die  Elixiere 
des  Teufets  (iSis),  That  Hoffmann,  with  all  his  somnambulism  and 
madness,  was  at  the  same  time  a master  of  realistic  description  and 
of  psychological  analysis,  need  hardly  be  added.  Cf.  G.  Ellinger, 
E,  T,  A,  Hojj7nann  : s.  Leben  u.  s.  Werke, 


45^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Cornelius,  Schwind,  Ludwig  Richter,  to  reveal  the  inner- 
most secrets  and  longings  of  the  popular  heart;  why  it 
should  have  given  a second  youth  to  the  aged  Goethe;  why 
it  should  have  given  life  to  the  best  in  German  lyrics  of  the 
nineteenth  century  from  Uhland  and  Heine  to  Scheffel  and 
Richard  Wagner. 

It  is  the  first  decade  of  the  century,  the  time  which  saw 
the  cession  to  France  of  all  the  territory  to  the  left  of  the 
The  mediaBval  Rhine  (i8oi),  the  wholesale  secularization  of 
Eonaissance  Catholic  church  property  (1803),  the  break-down 
the  collapse  of  Prussia  and  the  formal  abdication  of  the  Ger- 

of  the  Holy  Emperor  (1806),  the  final  defeat  of  Austria 

EomanEm-  / o \ . r j • • • r ^ 

pipe,  (1809),  the  forced  participation  of  German  troops 

in  the  Russian  campaign  (1812);  it  is  the  days  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Westphalia  and  the  Rhenish  Confederation,  of  the  murder 
of  Palm,  of  the  tragic  end  of  a Schill  and  a Hofer;  it  is,  in 
a word,  the  years  of  deepest  national  misery,  which  ripened 
the  first  full  fruits  of  this  new,  mediaeval  Renaissance, 
which  brought  to  light  the  true  features  of  by-gone  German 
greatness,  which  gave  a new  life  to  the  old  national  tra- 
ditions, to  the  Minnesingers  and  the  Nibelungenlieds  to  the 
popular  song  and  the  popular  tale. 

Here  more  clearly  than  anywhere  else  do  we  see  the 
threads  which  connect  the  Romantic  movement  with  Her- 
der. Herder  had  been  the  first  to  conceive  of 

ns  oosmopoli-  literature  as  an  outgrowth  of  national  life,  the 
tan  cnaracter.  . ° . 

first  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  all  ages  and  climes, 

the  first  to  emphasize  the  essential  unity  of  the  great  song 

of  mankind.  That  the  Romanticists  did  not  fall  behind 

Herder  in  cosmopolitan  breadth  there  is  no  better  proof 

than  August  Wilhelm  SchlegePs  classic  Lectures  on  Dramatic 

Literature  and  Art  (1809),  his  masterly  translations  of 

Shakspere  (1797)®^  and  Calderon  (1804),  Friedrich  Schle- 

**  The  first  comprehensive  attempt  to  introduce  Shakspere  in  Ger- 
many (not  to  mention  the  s:arbled  versions  of  the  English  comedians 
of  the  seventeenth  century)  had  been  made  by  Wieland,  who  between 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  45/ 


gel’s  epoch-making  Sanscrit  studies  {Sprache  und  Weisheit 
der  Ifidier^  1808),  and  the  long  list  of  similar  adaptations  of 
foreign  tongues  and  literatures  to  German  soil  which  have 
made  German  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century  a meeting- 
ground  of  the  best  in  all  civilization,  old  and  new,  Christian 
and  pagan,  oriental  and  occidental.  But  it  was  only  natu- 
ral that  the  very  collapse  of  national  existence  should  have 
surrounded  the  attempts  to  rediscover  the  German  people 
in  mediaeval  German  poetry  with  a passionate  earnestness 
which  had  been  foreign  even  to  the  fiery  soul  of  Herder. 

Tieck,  in  the  introduction  to  Phantasus^  tells  us  how,  when 
a youth,  he  used  to  dream  of  writing  a descrip- 
tion  of  German  lands  which  was  to  connect  the  ofG-erman 
present  with  the  most  striking  aspects  of  the  past.  iiationa]ity. 

“In  those  days,”  he  says,®^  “there  were  still  a good  many 
relics  of  the  olden  times  before  our  eyes;  there  were  monasteries, 
ecclesiastical  principalities,  free  imperial  towns,  many  ancient 
buildings  which  since  have  been  demolished,  many  ancient  works 
of  art  which  since  have  been  scattered  ; not  a few  mediaeval 
customs  were  still  alive;  the  popular  festivals  still  preserved  dig- 
nity and  joyfulness;  and  you  had  to  travel  only  a few  miles  to 
find  different  usages,  buildings,  institutions. 

“ To  see,  to  feel,  and  to  depict  this  varied  world  was  my  pur- 
pose; whatever  is  truly  national  in  our  works  of  painting,  sculp- 
ture, and  architecture;  what  manners  and  customs  are  peculiar  to 
each  province  and  town;  what  physical  conditions  surround  every 


1762  and  1766  translated  twenty-two  of  the  dramas.  This  transla- 
tion had  been  revised  between  1775  and  1782  by  Eschenburg.  Schle- 
gel  was  the  first  to  give  a poetic  version.  It  is  his  language  which, 
schooled  by  Burger,  inspired  by  Schiller,  and  chastened  by  the  influ' 
ence  of  Goethe,  made  Shakspere  a German  classic.  Between  1797 
and  1801  there  appeared  Romeo,  Midsum7ner- Nighf  s Dreaniy  Julius 
CcBsar,  Twelfth- AHght,  Tempest,  Hamlet,  Merchant  of  Venice^  As  You 
like  It,  and  the  English  Histories  with  the  exception  of  Richard  III, 
and  Henry  VIII.  The  former  was  added  in  1810.  Cf.  M.  Bernays, 
Zur  Entstehungsgesch.  d,  Schlegelschen  Shakespeare, 

Schriften  IV,  14  ff.  That  there  is  a latent  protest  in  this  pas- 
sage against  Nicolai's  Reise  durch  Deutschland  (1783-96)  is  clear. 


458  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


individual  tribe,  moulding  it  and  being  moulded  by  it: — all  this 
was  to  be  brought  out  as  in  a picture. 

“ The  noble  race  of  the  Austrians  preserving  in  their  mountains 
the  mirth  of  by-gone  days  I wished  to  defend  against  modern 
misunderstanding;  I wished  to  exalt  the  warlike  and  pious  Bava- 
rians; I wished  to  depict  the  gentle,  thoughtful,  and  imaginative 
Suabians  in  their  garden-like  country;  the  sprightly  gay  Fran- 
conians with  their  romantic  variegated  landscape — to  whom 
Bamberg  was  a German  Rome  ; the  spirited  tribes  along  the 
lordly  Rhine;  the  upright  Hessians,  the  handsome  Thuringians 
whose  forests  still  preserve  form  and  face  of  the  old  knights; 
the  Low-Germans,  resembling  in  true-heartedness  the  Dutch,  in 
strength  and  skill  the  English.  Thus  I would  wander  through 
the  dear  valleys  and  mountains,  through  our  noble  lands,  once 
so  happy  and  great,  traversed  (durchrauschi)  by  Rhine  and  Da- 
nube and  ancient  sagas,  guarded  by  mountains  and  castles  and 
German  bravery,  bedecked  with  those  meadows  of  matchless 
green  in  which  there  dwell  such  dear  homeliness  and  simple- 
mindedness.  Truly,  he  who  succeeded  in  reproducing  thus  from 
the  depth  of  his  feelings  the  features  of  his  beloved  fatherland 
would  thereby  have  created  a poem  of  most  ravishing  beauty.” 

One  might  say  that  this  enchanting  dream,  although  in  a 
literal  sense  it  has  never  been  fulfilled,  was  at  the  bottom  of 
all  that  the  Romantic  poets  and  writers  have  done  toward 
the  restoration  of  ancient  German  poetry  and  art. 

Tieck  himself — to  mention  only  a few  important  phases 

of  this  work  of  reconstruction — gave  the  decisive  impulse 

with  his  Minnelieder  aus  dem  schwdbischen  Zeit- 

Tieck’s  (1803).^^  Here  for  the  first  time  an  at- 

Miniielieder.  •,  , • , , 

tempt  was  made  to  bring  the  beauty  of  mediaeval 

German  poetry  home  to  the  popular  heart;  here  for  the  first 

time  the  Minnesong  was  considered  in  its  full  national 

bearing;  here  for  the  first  time  there  seemed  to  rise  into  full 

view  the  spirit  of  an  age  in  which  “the  most  different  minds 


**  Cf.  Jacob  Grimm's  tribute  to  the  ‘ hinreissende  Vorrede'  of 
Tieck's  work;  Kleinere  Schriften  I,  6.  That  long  before  Tieck,  from 
1748  to  1759,  there  had  appeared  Bodmer's  editions  of  the  Minne- 
singers, is  well  known. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  459 


were  still  united  in  a common  interest,  when  spring,  beauty, 
longing,  joy,  were  themes  which  never  wearied,  when  in- 
credible deeds  of  valour  in  war  or  tournament  carried  away 
all  hearers,  and  when  as  the  pillars  and  vaults  of  the  cathe- 
dral embraced  the  assembled  congregation,  so  religion  em- 
braced the  whole  of  life  and  held  all  hearts  in  an  equal 
bondage  of  love.'* 

About  the  same  time  that  Tieck  thus  pointed  toward  the 
national  foundations  of  chivalric  song,  in  the  winter  of  1803 
to  1804,  August  Wilhelm  Schlegel  delivered  in  A.  W. 

Berlin  those  Lectures  on  Belles  Lettres  and  Art^^ 

tne  NiDelun- 

which  represent  the  first  comprehensive  effort,  genlied. 
after  Herder’s  Ideen^  to  consider  the  history  of  literature, 
ancient  and  modern,  as  a process  of  social  evolution."*  And 
here,  as  a symbol  of  the  heroic  life  of  ancient  Germany, 
there  was  conjured  up  the  giant  shade  of  the  Nibelungen- 
lied.  Even  before  Schlegel,  Johannes  von  Muller  had 
praised  the  Nibelungenlied  as  the  German  Iliad^’'\  Tieck  in 
the  introduction  to  the  Minnelieder  had  thrown  out  the  re- 
mark"® that  it  would  be  as  futile  to  inquire  for  an  individual 
author  of  the  German  epic  as  Friedrich  August  Wolf  had 
proved  it  to  be  with  regard  to  the  origin  of  the  Homeric 
poems.  But  to  Schlegel  must  be  given  the  credit  of 
having  first  revealed  its  gigantic  proportions,  of  having 
first  understood  it  fully  as  the  work  of  the  collective 
energy  of  a whole  age,  of  having  by  his  divinatory  com- 


Words  from  Tieck’s  introduction  ; Kritische  Sc  hr,  I,  195  f. 

Vorlesungen  uber  schone  Litteratur  und  Kunst  ed.  J.  Minor;  DLD, 
nr.  17  ff. — The  whole  course  embraced  three  successive  winters,  from 
1801  to  1804.  Selections  from  the  Lectures  on  Dramat,  Lit,  in 
DNL.  CXLIII. 

Here  for  the  first  time  do  we  find  the  division  of  the  history  of 
German  literature  into  four  epochs — “ monchisch,  ritterlich,  biirger- 
lich,  gelehrt ’’—which,  with  slight  modifications,  has  remained  the 
prevailing  one  ever  since# 

Cf.  Haym  /.  c,  826. 


Krit.  Schr,  I,  192. 


460  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


prehension  paved  the  way  for  the  later  criticism  of  Lach- 
mann.  And  what  a thrill  of  patriotic  resolve  must  have 
run  through  his  hearers^®  at  the  words  “Let  no  one 
believe  that  such  poems  can  be  made  out  of  nothing. 
There  must  be  great  deeds,  before  there  can  be  great 
poems.  Poetry  and  history  are  intimately  connected,  es- 
pecially epic  poetry  is  often  only  another  and  truer  reflex 
of  events  than  prose  documents.  And  thus  the  present 
age  may  look  here  into  the  mirror  of  an  heroic  past,  if, 
by  looking,  it  is  not  made  to  feel  too  painfully  its  own 
nothingness.*' 

Hardly  two  years  after  these  words  were  spoken,  Achim 
von  Arnim  and  Clemens  Brentano,  in  Des  Knaben  Wunder- 
horn  (1805),^”^  opened  up  another  view  of  this 
Wunde^om  bringing  to  light  the  world  of  artless 

grace  and  sturdy  truthfulness,  of  humour,  joy- 
fulness, daring,  sentiment,  revery,  wisdom — hidden  in  the 
ancient  Volkslied;  and  here  again  we  see  as  the  guiding 
motive  the  endeavour  to  revive  the  feeling  of  national 
individuality.  The  German  folksong — this  is  the  main  idea 
of  Arnim’s  introductory  essay  Von  Volksliedern — was  the 
expression  of  a common  consciousness,  it  was  the  result  of 
a national  organization  which  united  the  people  in  a free 
public  life,  in  guilds  and  trade  associations,  in  common 
worship  and  in  common  mirth. 

“ Without  popular  activity  there  is  no  popular  song,  and  rarely 
is  there  popular  activity  without  the  latter.  Poetry  speaks  to 
all  and  in  all,  its  commonness  detracts  from  it  as  little  as  it 


Among  them  was  the  young  F.  H.  von  der  Hagen,  who  here  re- 
ceived the  stimulus  for  his  later  activity  as  commentator  and  editor  of 
the  Nibelungenlied.  His  modernized  version  of  the  poem  appeared  in 
1807,  the  first  of  his  editions  1810;  Lachmann’s  Ueber  die  urspriingl. 
Gestalt  d.  Gedichts  v.  d.  Nibelungen  Noth  1816. 

L.  c.  nr.  19,  p.  120. 

The  first  vol  is  dated  1806,  but  it  actually  appeared  in  July, 
1805.  Cf.  Jul.  Schmidt,  Gesck.  d.  d.  Litt.  s.  Lessing^  II,  401. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  46 1 


detracts  from  the  trees  of  a forest  that  they  are  all  green.  For 
the  very  highest  is  the  most  common,  the  poet  is  a common  spirit, 
a spiritus  familiaris  of  the  world’s  community.”  But  alas!  this 
state  of  a truly  popular  life  has  long  ago  ceased  to  exist.  Prince- 
ly tyranny,  class  rule,  vain  scholasticism,  supremacy  of  foreign 
fashions,  contempt  of  the  people,  slavish  submissiveness: — these 
have  been  the  main  features  of  German  history  in  recent  cen- 
turies ; until  at  last  the  nation  “came  to  look  at  laws  as  whirl- 
winds, or  other  like  superhuman  forces,  against  which  there  is  no 
other  help  but  passive  resistance  or  submission  or  despair.” 


And  now,  since  the  complete  overturning  of  the  social 
and  political  structure  of  the  old  Empire,  it  seems  as 
though  all  hope  of  national  regeneration  were  gone.  “ Good 
God!  where  are  the  ancient  trees  in  whose  shade  only 
yesterday  we  rested  ? The  primeval  symbols  of  firmly 
established  boundary  lines,  what  has  happened,  what  is 
happening  to  them  ? Almost  forgotten  are  they  among 
the  people  ; vexed  and  surprised  we  stumble  against  their 
roots.'*  To  make  these  roots  grow  again,  to  prevent 
the  fertile  soil  of  popular  life  from  being  entirely  washed 
away,  this,  Arnim  thinks,  is  the  duty  and  task  of  every 
patriot.  For  although  the  old  institutions  are  dead,  the 
spirit  which  created  them  is  not  extinct.  And  who  knows 
whether  from  these  songs  of  students  and  journeymen,  of 
soldiers  and  hunters,  of  peasant-lads  and  lusty  squires, 
there  is  not  to  spring  forth  a new  and  healthy  era  of 
national  existence  ? How  Germany  is  to  be  reborn,  who 
can  tell  ? But  he  who  bears  her  in  his  bosom,  feels  it 
stirring  mightily  within.” 

Again  only  two  years  after  Arnim  and  Brentano  had 
rallied  their  scattered  nation  under  the  standard  of  pop- 
ular song,”  Joseph  Gorres  in  Die  teutschen 
Volkshiicher  (1807),  with  a voice  unable  to  con- 
trol  the  tumult  of  long-suppressed  wrath,  shame, 
love,  wonder,  hope,  told  his  people  of  the  priceless  treas- 


Cf.  W under  horn  ed.  Boxberger  1,  ig, 
103  Ib.  14.  10*  lb,  6.  103  73^  32, 


Ib.  35. 


462  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


ures  of  common  thought  and  fancy  stored  up  for  days  of 
future  greatness  in  the  despised  popular  tale  and  legend, 
in  books  like  Fortunatus  or  Till  Eulenspiegel^  Our  Lord's 
Childhood  or  The  Seven  Wise  Masters^  in  almanacs  and 
dream-books,  in  trade-rules  and  sibylline  prophecies. 

“ As  in  the  fields  there  rises  stalk  by  stalk,  as  in  the  pasture 
blade  presses  blade,  as  under  the  ground  root  is  entwined  with 
root,  nature  for  ever  tirelessly  repeating  the  same  old  story  that 
yet  is  always  new, — thus  speaks  to  us  the  spirit  of  these  books. 
In  the  so-called  higher  literature  we  see  one  year  after  another, 
like  Saturnus,  devour  its  own  offspring,  the  children  of  a moment; 
but  these  books  live  an  indestructible,  immortal  life.  Century 
after  century,  they  have  addressed  themselves  to  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  hearers,  a limitless  audience  ; never  growing  old, 
always  returning,  always  welcome,  always  equally  entertaining, 
refreshing,  instructive.  Thus  they  form,  as  it  were,  the  primitive 
stock  of  all  literature,  the  substance  of  its  life,  the  framework 
of  its  bodily  existence.” 

To  be  sure,  they  belong  primarily  to  the  lower  classes  of 
the  people,  to  the  rude  and  uneducated.  But  on  that  very 
account  they  have  preserved  more  firmly  what  is  in  true 
accord  with  the  national  taste,  what  is  nutritious  and  help- 
ful for  all.  They  are  truly  bread  for  the  people.  They 
lead  us  back  to  the  mysterious  origins  of  our  race;  they 
connect  us  with  the  wisdom  of  ancient  India,  with  the 
culture  of  Greece  and  Rome;  they  contain  an  echo  of 
the  heroic  deeds  of  our  Germanic  ancestors;  they  are  a 
reflex  of  times  when  learning  and  life  were  not  so  far 
apart  as  they  are  to-day.  We  recognise  in  them  the 
German  people  ‘‘such  as  the  ancient  painters  have  por- 
trayed it ; simple,  quiet,  calm,  reserved,  honest,  knowing 
little  of  sensuous  passion,  all  the  more  susceptible  to  higher 
incentives.*'^®®  But  we  also  feel  the  presence  of  “a  hale 
and  lusty  spirit,  such  as  impels  the  deer  to  roam  through 
the  thicket.  There  is  nothing  tame,  domesticated,  trained, 
in  them  ; all  as  if  grown  in  the  wild  forest,  born  in  the 


Die  teutschen  Volksbilcher  (1807)/.  i f. 


108  Ib,  8. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  4^3 

shade  of  the  oak,  brought  up  in  mountain  glens,  free  and 
bold  sweeping  over  the  hillsides,  yet  from  time  to  time 
confidingly  descending  to  the  abodes  of  men  and  bringing 
word  of  the  free  life  without.”  Shame  upon  the  learned 
and  cultivated  of  this  age  who  like  haughty  prodigals  have 
turned  away  from  this  old  homestead  of  popular  tradition, 
squandering  their  part  of  the  common  inheritance  in 
fashionable  dissipation  ! and  all  hail  to  the  poor  and  the 
lowly  who  have  cherished  and  preserved  it,  so  that  we 
now  must  turn  to  them,  if  a truly  popular  life  is  to  be 
revived,  if  we  are  to  know  once  more  what  it  is  to  feel, 
to  think,  to  dream,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  a united 
nation! 

And  now  at  last  there  appeared  the  two  men  in  whom 
the  very  genius  of  the  German  people  seemed  to  have  been 
reincarnated,  the  men  whose  life-work  will  for 
ever  stand  as  the  ripest  scientific  result  of  this 
whole  turning  back  of  the  German  mind  from 
aristocratic  culture  and  cosmopolitanism  to  national  custom 
and  home  tradition  : Jacob  and  Wilhelm  Grimm, — Jacob 
(1785-1863)  the  greater  scholar  of  the  brothers,  the  creator 
of  historical  grammar,  the  founder  of  the  science  of  Teu- 
tonic mythology,  the  prime  mover  in  the  colossal  under- 
taking of  a national  dictionary  ; Wilhelm  (1786-1859)  the 
greater  writer  of  the  two,  the  investigator  of  Germanic 
hero-saga  and  folk-lore,  the  classic  interpreter  of  mediaevr  l 
poetry,  the  principal  gleaner  and  the  literary  artist  of  the 
Kinder-  und  Hausmdrehen. 

Both  men  possessed  a touching  simplicity  of  heart  and 
a wonderful  affinity  with  all  that  belongs  to  the  native  soil. 
When  Wilhelm  as  a man  of  forty,  at  the  height  of  his  lite- 
rary productivity,  revisits  the  scene  of  his  youth,  a quiet 
little  Hessian  village,  he  has  the  church  opened  for  him 
where  his  grandfather,  for  seven  and  forty  years  pastor  of 


Die  teutschen  Volksbucher  (iSoy'i  24  f. 


"0  Cf.  ib,  303  ff. 


4^4  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE. 

the  town,  would  Sunday  after  Sunday  pass  by  his  wife’s 
grave  on  his  way  to  the  pulpit,  and  he  is  seized  with  an 
inexpressible  longing  for  this  peaceful,  thoughtful,  and 
joyous  past  in  which  he  now  seems  to  walk  about  as  a de- 
parted spirit.  And  many  similar  traits  might  be  related 
of  Jacob  : how,  after  their  removal  from  Cassel  to  Gottin- 
gen, a distance  of  some  fifty  miles,  he  found  a comfort 
for  his  homesickness  in  the  thought  that  the  same  stars 
at  least  shone  over  both  places  ; or  how,  during  an  ill- 
ness of  Wilhelm’s,  he  suddenly  broke  down  in  his  lecture 
and  with  a faltering  voice  excused  himself;  My  brother 
is  so  sick.” 

And  these  men  whose  hearts  were  so  tender  and  whose 
life  was  so  gentle,  were  at  the  same  time  characters  of  un- 
impeachable rectitude  and  unbending  firmness,  and  wher- 
ever there  was  a principle  of  public  morality  or  of  scien- 
tific veracity  at  stake,  the  brothers  Grimm  were  sure  to  be 
found  champions  of  the  right.  Of  Wilhelm  can  be  said 
with  equal  justice  what  Jacob  said  of  himself  when  his 
protest  against  the  abrogation  of  the  Hanoverian  constitu- 
tion had  brought  the  edict  of  banishment  upon  his  head 
“ I never  attract  the  attention  of  the  ruling  powers  until 
they  force  me  to  bear  away  the  fire  of  my  hearth  and 
kindle  it  elsewhere.  This  independence  has  steeled  my  soul; 
it  resists  insinuations  which  would  stain  the  purity  of  my 
consciousness.”  And  Wilhelm  characterized  not  only  his 
own  principles  of  scientific  research,  but  also  those  of 
Jacob,  when  he  said“®  : “Exact  and  careful  monographs 
have  always  excited  my  admiration.  Such  contributions  to 
science  may  be  small  in  volume,  but  their  influence  is  in- 
calculable and  their  value  is  imperishable.  Spirit,  breadth 

Cf.  W.  Grimm’s  Selbstbiographie  in  his  Kleiner e Schriften  I,  7 f. 

Cf.  J.  Grimm’s  Selbstbiographie  in  his  Kleinere  Schr,  I,  17. 

Cf.  W.  Scherer,  Jacob  Gy'imm  p.  234. 

Ueber  meine  Entlassung;  KL  Schr,  I,  26* 

Selbstbiogr, ; L c,  6. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  465 

of  mind,  sympathy  with  the  highest  problems  of  life,  if  they 
are  there,  will  manifest  themselves  even  in  such  a work.  I 
would  rather  study  and  perceive  the  universal  in  the  par- 
ticular; and  the  knowledge  which  is  gained  in  this  way 
seems  to  me  more  certain  and  fruitful  than  that  which  is 
found  in  the  opposite  manner.  By  the  latter  method,  it  is 
so  easy  to  put  aside  as  useless  the  very  phenomenon  in 
which  life  has  expressed  itself  most  fully,  and  to  give  way 
to  speculations  which  may  intoxicate  but  which  do  not 
truly  satisfy  and  nourish/* 

These  were  the  men  to  lead  the  work  begun  by  Herder, 
the  rediscovery  and  the  rehabilitation  of  whatever  is  truly 
popular  and  national  in  literature,  to  its  climax.  These 
were  the  men  to  make  the  products  of  common  fancy 
which  in  the  times  of  servitude  and  misery  had  been  rele- 
gated to  the  lower  strata  of  society,  again  the  common  pro- 
perty of  the  nation. 

One  needs  only  to  compare  the  Kinder^  U7id  Hausmdrchen 
(1812)  with  the  collections  of  German  fairy-tales  by  men 
like  Musaus  or  Tieck”"^  to  realize  how  different  from  all 
previous  efforts,  how  essentially  new  and  epoch-making  was 
the  way  in  which  the  brothers  Grimm  approached  these  long- 
forgotten  treasures  of  the  popular  imagination.  Musaus, 
the  cultivated  rationalist,  the  disciple  of  Wieland,  however 
graceful  his  style,  however  successful  his  imitation  of  the 
naive,  cannot  make  us  forget  that  after  all  he  stoops  to  the 
children  of  the  people  as  to  inferior  beings.  Tieck,  al- 
though by  no  means  insensible  to  the  simple  charm  of  the 
genuine  fairy-tale,  destroys  its  pure  effect  by  putting  side  by 
side  with  it  extravagant  and  sensational  inventions  of  his 
own.  The  brothers  Grimm  have  nothing  more  at  heart 
than  to  preserve  the  popular  tradition  unalloyed  by  indi- 
vidual caprice;  they  listen  to  it  as  one  listens  to  the  silence 

Volksmdrchen  der  Deutschen  (1782-85);  cf.  DNL,  LVII,  155  ff. 

Cf.  supra  p.  453  f. 


466  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


of  the  forest,  awed  by  its  mystery,  amazed  by  its  wealth  of 
sound.  Its  presence  makes  them  feel  all  the  more  clearly 
the  insufficiency  and  shallowness  of  artificial  culture,  the 
immorality  of  ephemeral  fashions;  it  m.akes  them  see  the 
abiding  traits  of  national  character;  it  makes  them  bow 
before  the  majesty  of  popular  innocence. 

“There  lives  in  these  tales,”  thus  Wilhelm  Grimm  expresses 
his  own  feeling  for  them,^^*  “there  lives  in  these  tales  the  same 
purity  which  makes  children  seem  so  wonderful  and  so  blessed  to 
us;  they  have,  as  it  were,  the  same  bluish-white,  spotless,  lustrous 
eyes,  which  are  full-grown  while  the  limbs  are  still  feeble  and 
unsuited  for  the  work  of  life.  The  sphere  of  this  world  is  lim- 
ited: kings,  princes,  faithful  servants,  honest  craftsmen,  above 
all  fishermen,  millers,  charcoal-burners  and  shepherds,  all  the  folk 
who  live  nearest  to  nature,  appear  in  it;  what  lies  beyond  is 
strange  and  unknown.  As  in  the  myths  which  tell  of  a golden 
age,  all  nature  is  alive;  sun,  moon,  and  stars  are  accessible, 
bestow  gifts  or  may  perhaps  even  be  woven  in  garments;  in  the 
mountains,  dwarfs  are  digging  for  precious  metals,  in  the  sea 
there  sleep  the  water-sprites;  birds,  plants,  and  stones  talk  and 
express  their  sympathy;  even  blood  calls  and  speaks  out.  This 
innocent  familiarity  of  the  greatest  and  the  smallest  has  an  in- 
expressible sweetness,  and  we,  for  our  part,  would  rather  listen 
to  the  conversation  between  the  stars  and  a poor  child  lost  in  the 
forest  than  to  the  music  of  the  spheres.  All  that  is  beautiful,  is 
golden  and  strewn  with  pearls;  even  golden  people  are  to  be 
found;  the  evil,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a dark  power,  a monstrous, 
man-eating  giant.  And  yet  it  is  overcome,  for  a good  woman 
comes  forward  who  knows  how  to  avert  the  danger — and  thus 
this  epic  always  ends  by  opening  up  an  endless  joy.” 

And  so  they  came  forward  again,  all  those  lovely  and 
artless  creatures  whom  the  deceit  of  the  learned  and  the 
ignorance  of  the  powerful  had  forced  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
huts  of  the  peasants  and  artisans.  And  Hansel  and  Gretel, 
little  Red  Riding  Hood,  Briar-rose,  Schneewittchen,  and 
Tom  Thumb  took  their  place  by  the  side  of  Siegfried  and 
Roland,  of  Till  Eulenspiegel  and  the  figures  of  the  Volks- 


Preface  to  the  Mdrchen;  W.  Grimm.  KL  Schr.  I,  322  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^7 

lied,  as  witnesses  of  a past  when  there  still  existed  a Ger- 
man nation,  and  as  prophets  of  a future,  when  this  nation 
was  to  rise  again  in  ancient  splendour. 

It  was  on  October  i8,  1812,  that  Wilhelm  Grimm  wrote 
the  words  just  quoted.  Exactly  twelve  months  latex  the 
battle  of  Leipzig  was  fought."* 

3.  The  New  Poetry  and  the  National  Uprising. 

Of  the  intellectual  agencies  of  the  eighteenth  century 
which  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  co-operated  to 
bring  about  the  regeneration  of  the  German  people  we  have 
thus  far  considered  two.  We  have  seen  how  Kant’s  moral 
law  developed  into  the  pantheism  of  Schleiermacher  and 
the  socialism  of  Fichte.  We  have  seen  how  Herder’s 
idea  of  national  individuality  gave  rise  to  a revival  of 
Catholicism  and  all  that  is  implied  by  popular  tradition. 
The  question  remains:  who  were  the  successors  of  Schiller 
and  Goethe?  what  poets  can  be  said  to  have  held  up  after 
them,  in  a new  form,  the  ideal  of  complete  humanity  ? 

No  one  could  have  felt  more  clearly  than  either  Heinrich 
von  Kleist  (1777-1811)  or  Ludwig  Uhland  (1787-1862)  the 
gulf  which  separated  them  from  the  two  great- 
est poets  of  modern  times.  Kleist’s  despair-  uhland^^ 
ing  outcry ‘‘Hell  gave  me  my  half-talents, 
heaven  bestows  a whole  talent  or  none,”  reveals  the  tragedy 
of  a life  which  was  consumed  in  the  ever-renewed  and  ever- 
hopeless  struggle  to  rival  the  dramatic  art  of  Schiller;  while 
the  modest  muse  of  Uhland  dared  not  even  think  of  herself 


It  is  a noteworthy  fact  that  J.  Grimm  in  his  own  copy  of  the 
Mdrchen  commented  on  this  coincidence,  by  adding  to  the  date  of 
the  preface  ('‘Cassel,  am  18.  October  1812”)  the  marginal  note: 
“ Gerade  ein  Jahr  vor  der  Leipziger  Schlacht.’’  W.  Grimm,  Kl.  Schr, 
I,  328. 

Cf.  A.  Koberstein,  H.  von  Kleist's  Briefe  an  5,  Schwester  Ulrike^ 
letter  of  Oct.  5,  1803. 


468  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


in  company  with  the  Olympian  of  Weimar/^^  And  yet  it  is 
to  these  two  men  that  we  must  turn  if  we  wish  to  understand 
how  the  work  of  Schiller  and  Goethe  lived  on  in  the  midst 
of  younger  generations,  how  it  entered  into  the  development 
of  Romanticism,  how  it  helped  to  bring  on  the  day  of  liberty 
and  greatness. 

What  Goethe  has  said  of  Heinrich  von  Kleist,  that  “ he 
seemed  to  him  like  a human  form  beautifully  planned  by 
Kleist’s  place  infected  with  an  incurable  disease,” 

in  Romantic  while  it  clearly  states  the  tragic  conflict  of  the 
literature.  poet’s  life,  fails  to  do  justice  to  the  heroic  efforts 
made  by  him  to  rise  superior  to  this  conflict, — efforts  to 
which  German  literature  owes  some  of  its  most  stirring  and 
pathetic  characters.  More  deeply  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries did  Kleist  feel  the  agony  of  an  age  which  saw 
the  creation  of  centuries  sink  into  the  dust;  more  intensely 
than  most  did  he  suffer  the  pangs  of  the  search  for  a new 
heaven  and  a new  earth;  more  hopelessly  than  most  did  he 
lose  himself  in  the  labyrinthine  maze  of  Romantic  specula- 
tion and  self-reflection;  and  more  clearly  than  any  has  he 
shown  the  way  leading  out  of  it. 

Disgusted  with  the  humdrum  of  military  drill  to  which  as 
a lieutenant  in  the  Prussian  army  he  sees  himself  con- 
demned, he  flees  to  books  to  find  freedom  and 
life.  He  studies  the  Kantian  philosophy.  But 
the  same  thought  which  to  a Fichte  or  a Schleier- 
macher  brought  the  assurance  of  the  essential  spirituality  of 
all  things  plunges  Kleist  into  the  depths  of  despair.  If 
all  men,”  he  writes, ‘‘  had  green  glasses  for  eyes,  they 
would  be  compelled  to  think  that  all  objects  were  green;  and 


Erratic 

flights. 


Cf.  the  homage  paid  by  him  to  Goethe  in  the  poems  Munster- 
sage  and  Mdrchen  ; Uhland,  Gedichte  u.  Dramen  II,  126.  240. 

Cf.  Julian  Schmidt  in  the  introduction  to  Kleist’s  Gesammelte 
Schr.  I,  II. 

Cf.  K.  Biedermann,  H.  v.  Kleist  Brief e an  s.  Braut  ; letter  of 
March  22,  1801. 


THR  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^9 

they  would  never  be  able  to  decide  whether  the  eye  showed 
them  things  as  they  are  or  whether  it  did  not  add  some- 
thing which  does  not  belong  to  the  things  but  to  the  eye. 
Thus  it  is  with  the  intellect.  We  cannot  decide  whether 
that  which  we  call  truth  is  really  truth,  or  whether  it  only 
seems  so  to  us. — Ever  since  this  conviction  has  taken  hold 
of  my  mind,  I have  not  touched  a book.  I have  walked  up 
and  down  in  my  room,  I have  sat  down  by  the  open  window, 
1 have  run  out  into  the  open  air;  I have  been  driven  by  an 
inner  restlessness  into  taverns  and  coffee-houses;  I have,  to 
distract  myself,  visited  theatres  and  concerts;  I have  even,  in 
order  to  dull  my  feelings,  committed  some  folly;  and  yet 
the  only  thought  which,  in  all  this  outer  tumult,  rose  up 
before  my  feverish  soul  was  this:  ‘Thy  only,  thy  highest 
ideal  is  gone.’  ” Haunted  by  these  dreadful  visions  he 
enters  on  a life  of  aimless  wanderings  through  Germany, 
France,  Switzerland.  For  a time  he  dreams  of  buying  a 
farm  in  the  native  land  of  Rousseau,  of  becoming  a free 
tiller  of  the  soil.  This  plan  fails  through  the  misgivings  of 
his  fiancee  as  to  its  practicability.  Without  hesitation 
Kleist  breaks  his  engagement,  and  now  poetry  is  to  give 
him  the  consolation  and  the  harmony  with  himself  which 
neither  knowledge  nor  life  could  offer.  He  has  conceived 
a gigantic  tragedy,  a tragedy  which  is  to  combine  the  dra- 
matic art  of  ^schylus  and  Shakspere,  which  is  to  reveal 
the  whole  grandeur  of  man’s  battle  with  fate.  But  what 
a distance  between  the  conception  and  the  completion;  what 
a world  of  torment  and  anxiety,  of  doubt  and  self-condem- 
nation! It  is  in  vain  that  sympathetic  friends  try  to  inspire 
him  with  courage;  in  vain  that  the  aged  Wieland,  after 
having  heard  a few  scenes  from  Robert  Guiscard  (the  name 
of  the  tragedy),  pronounces^^"‘  Kleist  the  genius  destined 
“ to  fill  the  gap  in  the  development  of  the  German  drama 

Cf.  Jul.  Schmidt,  /.  c,  I,  39.  The  ten  scenes  of  this  drama  which 
have  come  down  to  us  (Kleist’s  Sd7nmtl.  Werke  ed.  Muncker  III, 
197  ff.)  fully  justify  this  opinion  of  Wieland’s. 


470  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

which  even  Schiller  and  Goethe  have  not  yet  filled/’  In 
October,  1803,  two  years  after  the  plan  of  the  tragedy  had 
first  taken  form  in  his  mind,  he  writes  to  his  sister  from  the 
north  of  France 

“What  I am  going  to  tell  you  may  perhaps  cost  you  your  life; 
but  I must,  I must  do  it.  I have  perused  again,  rejected,  and 
burned  my  work;  and  now  the  end  has  come.  Heaven  denies  me 
fame,  the  greatest  of  earthly  goods;  like  a capricious  child  I 
throw  down  before  it  all  the  rest.  I cannot  show  myself  worthy  of 
thy  friendship,  and  without  thy  friendship  I cannot  live:  I choose 
death.  Be  calm,  exalted  one!  I shall  die  the  beautiful  death  of 
battle.  I have  left  the  capital  of  this  country,  I have  wandered 
to  its  northern  coast,  I shall  enter  the  French  service;  soon  the 
army  will  embark  for  England,  the  ruin  of  us  all  is  lurking  over 
the  sea,  I exult  in  the  prospect  of  the  glorious  grave.  Thou,  be- 
loved, shalt  be  my  last  thought.” 

Thus  far  Kleist  has  been  absorbed  in  himself,  engaged 
exclusively  in  the  cultivation  of  his  own  nature.  Society, 
state,  fatherland  do  not  exist  for  him.  He  contemplates 
Inner reco-  feelings,  he  dissects  his  own  thoughts; 

very.  thereby  losing  the  very  thing  which  he  is  so 

ravenously  craving:  the  belief  in  himself,  the  power  of  ar- 
tistic creation,  the  moral  equipoise  of  his  being.  But  now 
his  country  is  plunged  into  the  disaster  of  1806,  the  very 
existence  of  the  German  people  is  endangered;  and  now  at 
last  he  recovers — for  a time  at  least — from  his  self-destruc- 
tive breedings,  he  forgets  himself,  he  finds  the  true  sources 
of  his  strength,  he  becomes  a poet. 

Not  that  the  national  catastrophe  at  once  wrung  from 
Kleist  an  outcry  of  patriotic  feeling.  Only  the  end  of  the 
year  1808  was  to  see  the  birth  of  the  Hermanns schlacht. 
Yet  every  one  of  the  four  remarkable  works  which  were 
finished  in  the  two  years  preceding  it — Der  zerhrochene  Krug 
(1806),  Penthesilea^  Das  Kdthchen  von  Heilbronn^  Michael 


Koberstein  /.  c.;  letter  of  Oct.  26. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  47 1 

Kohlhaas  (1808)/^® — reflects  in  its  own  way  the  process  of 
inner  recovery  and  reconstruction,  through  which  in  this 
very  time  of  outward  humiliation  and  defeat  the  German 
nation  was  to  pass. 

It  is  as  though  the  ideal  of  complete  humanity  which  in- 
spired the  great  classic  poets  had  here,  under  the  stress  of 
national  misery,  been  welded  into  a form,  less 
beautiful  to  be  sure,  but  more  compact  and  life- 
like.  Instead  of  the  mellow  transparency  of  marble  we  have 
the  sharp  ruggedness  of  bronze.  We  feel:  these  figures  have 
been  hardened  in  the  fire;  they  are  the  result  of  emotions 
so  fierce,  so  violent,  so  volcanic  as  are  experienced  only  by 
men  who  have  felt  the  very  soil  give  way  under  their  feet, 
who  have  lived  through  a break-down  of  their  whole  spiritual 
existence. 

This  it  is  which  gives  such  a poignancy  and  raciness  even 

to  the  stout  humour  of  Dutch  village  life  as  displayed  in  Der 

zerbrochene  Krug,  Like  a Teniers  or  a Terburg, 

Kleist  fairly  revels,  in  this  inimitable  little  play, 

. ^ . . chene  Krug, 

in  the  faithful  reproduction  of  the  ordinary  and 

the  commonplace.  What  an  atmosphere  of  every-day 

reality  is  spread  over  it  ! How  squarely  they  stand  before 

us,  this  slovenly  and  slothful  justice  of  the  peace  with  his 

club  foot,  his  blackened  eye,  and  his  big  bald  head;  this 

sleek,  thin,  officious  clerk,  constantly  on  the  alert  for  an 

opportunity  to  thrust  himself  into  the  position  of  his  chief; 

this  quarrelsome  and  loquacious  Frau  Marthe,  not  hesitating 

to  drag  the  good  name  of  her  daughter  into  the  court-room 

if  there  is  a chance  of  recovering  damages  for  a broken  jar; 


A full  analysis  of  all  of  Kleist’s  works  in  O.  Brahm,  Heinrich 
von  Kleist.  At  the  end  of  Brahm ’s  book  there  is  a complete  Kleist 
bibliography  up  to  1884.  Of  all  the  critics  of  Kleist  none  seems 
to  me  to  have  entered  as  deeply  into  Kleist’s  character  as  H.  v. 
Treitschke;  Historische  u.  Politische  Aufsdtze  II. 

Tieck  seems  to  have  been  the  first  to  observe  this  resemblance 
between  Kleist  and  the  old  Dutch  masters.  Cf.  Jul.  Schmidt  /.  c.  84. 


47^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and,  in  pleasant  contrast  with  all  these,  this  sturdy  peasant- 
lad  and  iiis  sweetheart,  whose  love,  though  sorely  tried,  is 
proven  to  be  so  genuine  and  true  ! Yet  after  all,  Kleist's 
realism  is  something  very  different  from  the  realism  of  the 
old  Dutch  genre-painters.  It  entirely  lacks  their  restfulness 
and  serenity,  there  is  something  fierce  and  breathless  in  it, 
there  is  burning  under  its  surface  a violent  hatred  of  sham 
and  deceit,  a grim  desire  to  unmask  the  illusions  of  life.  A 
mere  nothing,  a broken  pot,  disturbs  the  peace  of  the  com- 
munity, severs  family  ties,  and  threatens  the  happiness  of 
lovers.  And  when  the  law  is  called  upon  to  settle  matters, 
it  appears  that  the  judge  himself  is  the  real  sinner,  his  very 
examination  of  the  litigating  parties  reveals  the  fact  that  he 
has  made  an  attempt  against  the  honour  of  one  of  them,  and 
the  trial  ends  with  his  ignominious  flight  from  the  court- 
room.— Such  is  the  world  we  live  in;  these  are  the  men 
from  whom  we  expect  justice ! 

What  in  Der  zerbrochene  Krug  we  feel  as  a latent  force 
only — the  heartburnings  of  a man  who  carries  within  him 
the  image  of  a perfect  world  unrealized — breaks 
forth  in  Fenthesilea  with  unbridled  and  irresisti- 
ble impetuosity.  Here  for  the  first  time  Kleist  finds  a poetic 
symbol  for  his  innermost  being,  here  for  the  first  time  we 
see  him  in  his  full  heroic  stature.  It  is  doubtful  whether  in 
the  whole  range  of  literature  there  is  to  be  found  another 
work  breathing  such  elemental,  nay,  chaotic  passion,  as  does 
this  marvellous  poem,  in  whicU  the  days  of  centaur  struggles 
and  bacchantic  rage  seem  to  have  been  revived.  What  a 
strange,  fabulous  region  it  is  into  which  we  are  led  ! This 
realm  of  the  Amazons  with  its  barbarous  traditions  of  hus- 
band-slaughter and  husband-rape;  this  holy  ordinance  com- 
pelling the  maiden  to  seek  and  to  vanquish  her  lover  on 
the  field  of  battle;  these  gorgeous  paraphernalia  of  war  sur- 
rounded by  which  Fenthesilea  herself  sets  out  to  subdue  the 
beloved  Achilles — what  is  all  this  to  us  ? How  little  of  human 
interest  it  seems  to  have!  Thus  we  think,  until  we  hear  this 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  473 


Penthesilea  speak;  until  we  become  aware  that  this  fabulous 
queen  of  the  Amazons  is  in  reality  Kleist’s  own  soul,  a soul 
inspired  with  titanic  daring,  driven  by  superhuman  desire, 
bent  on  conquering  eternity.  When  the  conviction  first 
dawned  upon  Kleist  that  the  whole  of  truth  is  beyond 
human  reach,  all  life  henceforth  seemed  worthless  to  him. 
When  Penthesilea  instead  of  vanquishing  the  beloved  hero 
is  overcome  by  him,  even  his  love  is  hateful  to  her.  The 
ideal  which  she  cannot  fully  and  without  reserve  make  hers 
she  must  destroy.  The  god  in  her  having  been  killed,  the 
beast  awakes.  And  thus,  immediately  after  that  enchanting 
scene  where  the  lovers  for  the  first  time  and  the  last  have 
been  revelling  in  mutual  surrender  and  delight,  she  falls  like 
a tigress  upon  the  unsuspecting  and  weaponless  man;  with 
the  voluptuousness  of  despair,  she  sends  the  arrow  through 
his  breast;  she  lets  her  hounds  loose  upon  him  as  he  dies, 
and  together  with  the  hounds  she  tears  his  limbs  and  drinks 
his  blood;  until  at  last,  brought  back  to  her  senses,  and 
realizing  what  she  has  done,  she  sinks  into  the  arms  of 
death, — a character  so  atrocious  and  so  ravishing,  so  mon- 
strous and  so  divine,  so  miraculous  and  so  true,  as  no  other 
poet  ever  has  created. 

Das  Kdthchen  von  Heilbronn  and  Michael  Kohlhaas  are 
both  variations  of  the  same  theme  struck  in  Penthesilea', 
the  theme  of  unconditional,  unfaltering,  unquestioning  obe- 
dience to  the  promptings  of  the  inner  voice.  But  they  are 
variations  of  a most  pronounced  originality.  In  Kathchen 
it  is  the  absolute  trust  of  a child  following  instinctively  and 
as  if  under  hypnotic  influence  the  spell  of  a superior  per- 
sonality. In  Kohlhaas  it  is  the  imperturbable  self-respect 
of  a man  who  would  plunge  the  whole  world  into  ruin  rather 
than  allow  the  intruder  upon  his  own  lawful  right  to  go  un- 
punished. 

Kathchen’s  character  may  be  summed  up  in  the  words  of 


Penthesilea  Sc.  15  ; Werke  ed.  Muncker  II,  168  ff. 


474  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

her  father,  the  honest  sword-smith  of  Heilbronn  “ Sound 
of  body  and  soul  like  the  first-born  men;  a child  after  God’s 
DasKath-  heart,  rising  like  a straight  column  of 

chenvonHeil-  frankincense  and  juniper  in  the  quiet  evening 
bronn.  g^y  q£  ^ being  more  tender  or  dear 

you  could  not  imagine,  even  though  you  were  to  see  the 
dear  little  angels  peeping  with  their  clear  eyes  from  the 
clouds  under  God’s  own  hands  and  feet.  As  she  passed 
along  the  street  in  her  homely  attire,  the  straw  hat  on  her 
head  shining  with  yellow  lacquer,  her  little  bodice  of  black 
velvet  hung  with  slender  little  silver  chains  about  her  breast, 
there  would  run  a whisper  from  window  to  window:  ‘ Look! 
our  Kathchen  of  Heilbronn!  ’ — our  Kathchen  of  Heilbronn, 
sirs,  as  though  the  sky  of  Suabia  had  begotten  her  and  the 
town  lying  under  it,  impregnated  by  its  kiss,  had  brought 
her  forth.”  And  her  conduct  since  that  portentous  day 
when  she  first  saw  the  man  who  was  to  enslave  her  soul, 
stands  out  with  equal  clearness  from  the  anguish  of  the 
father  who  has  lost  his  child  Since  that  day  she  follows 
him  in  blind  devotion  from  place  to  place,  led  by  the  light 
of  his  face  which  has  been  wound  like  a chord  five-stranded 
round  her  soul;  with  naked  feet  exposed  to  every  pebble, 
the  short  little  skirt  that  covers  her  hips  fluttering  in  the 
wind,  nothing  but  a straw  hat  to  protect  her  face  from  the 
rage  of  the  elements.  Wherever  his  foot  turns  in  the  course 
of  his  adventures,  through  misty  glens,  through  deserts 
scorched  by  the  midday  sun,  through  the  night  of  imper- 
vious forests:  like  a dog  on  the  scent  of  his  master,  she  paces 
after  him;  and  she  who  was  accustomed  to  rest  on  soft 
cushions,  who  felt  the  smallest  little  knot  in  the  threads  of 
the  bed-linen — she  now  lies  down,  like  a serving-woman,  in 
his  stables  and  goes  to  sleep,  faint  with  fatigue,  upon  the 
straw  which  is  trampled  upon  by  his  proud  steeds.” 

How  widely  apart  from  all  this  and  yet  how  nearly  related 


Z>.  Kathchen  v.  Heilbr,  I,  i -•  L c.  227. 


1*0  Ib,  231. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATWHAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  475 


is  Michael  Kohlhaas,  the  central  figure  of  that  powerful  story 
of  the  sixteenth  century  in  which  it  seems  as 
though  the  spirit  of  revenge  which  soon  was  to 
unite  the  German  peoples  in  the  universal  uprising 
against  the  oppressor  of  Europe,  was  for  the  first  time  lifting 
its  head!  Here,  if  anywhere,  Kleist  is  a master  in  the  art  of 
crowding  a world  of  passion  into  the  most  concise,  succinct, 
and  seemingly  objective  narrative.  Kohlhaas  becomes  a 
rebel  and  a criminal  because  he  cannot  consent  to  the  pros- 
titution of  justice.  This  commonplace  horse-dealer,  this 
contented,  well-to-do  citizen,  this  plain  practical  man  of  the 
people,  is  at  bottom  a stalwart  idealist.  It  is  his  belief 
in  the  inevitable  victory  of  right  which  in  the  beginning  of  his 
trouble  with  the  Baron  von  Tronka  makes  him  go  to  the  ut- 
most length  of  forbearance.  Without  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion on  his  part,  some  of  his  horses  are  detained  by  the 
baron:  Kohlhaas  submits  to  it  as  to  one  of  those  unpleasant 
necessities  which  are  a part  of  the  “defective  order  of  this 
world.*'  Having  established  the  groundlessness  of  the 
detention,  he  reclaims  the  horses,  only  to  find  that  through 
overwork,  starvation,  and  wanton  ill-treatment  they  have 
been  well-nigh  ruined,  while  his  groom  on  protesting  against 
such  an  outrage  has  been  nearly  beaten  to  death.  Even  now 
Kohlhaas  controls  himself.  He  carefully  weighs  all  possi- 
bilities, and  only  when  he  has  fully  convinced  himself  that 
there  is  no  other  way  of  redress  does  he  decide  to  invoke  the 
law  in  his  behalf.  But  now  there  happens  the  unheard  of, 
the  incredible:  the  law  itself  sides  with  the  law-breaker! 
even  the  highest  court  of  the  land  rejects  Kohlhaas's  com- 
plaint as  irrelevant  and  futile!  It  is  superb  to  see  how  the 
long-suppressed  impulse  of  vindicating  the  right  with  his  own 
hand  now  flames  up  in  this  quiet  and  self-possessed  North 
German  with  irrepressible  and  fatal  power.  Through  all  his 
wrath  and  indignation  at  “ seeing  the  world  in  such  a pro- 


181  Cf.  Werke  IV,  13. 


47^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

digious  disorder”  there  flashes  a feeling  of  inward  satisfac- 
tion that  ‘‘  his  own  mind  has  at  last  been  set  right.”  His 
faithful  wife  having  made  a last  effort  to  redress  his  wrongs, 
and  having  died  while  engaged  in  it,  he  arranges  her  funeral 
with  all  the  solemnity  and  deliberateness  of  one  who  is  about 
to  settle  his  account  with  this  world.  (What  a picture!  this 
silent  man,  his  youngest  child  on  his  arm,  standing  by  and 
watching,  as  they  are  digging  her  grave!)  He  sells  all  his 
property  except  his  horses  and  his  arms;  he  puts  his  chil- 
dren in  the  care  of  relatives;  once  more  he  throws  himself 
down  in  the  deserted  house  before  the  bed  of  the  departed 
one: — and  then  he  rises  ‘Hor  the  business  of  revenge.” 
And  when,  after  years  of  murder  and  destruction,  after  the 
whole  country  has  been  made  to  feel  all  the  terrors  of  a civil 
war,  the  horses  are  at  last  restored  to  him  in  good  condition 
and  the  baron  is  sentenced  to  prison,  Kohlhaas  willingly 
suffers  the  fate  of  a rebel,  and  lays  his  head  on  the  block 
with  the  joyful  consciousness  that  justice  has  been  done. 

While  Kleist  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  this 
thrilling  tale  of  popular  rebellion,  there  had  been  heard  the 
Die  Her  mutterings  of  the  European  revolt  against 

manns-  Napoleonic  usurpation.  The  Spanish  people  had 

scMacht.  risen,  and  from  the  battlefields  of  Saragossa  and 
Baylen  there  came  a mighty  voice  calling  upon  the  German 
people  to  do  likewise.  Kleist’s  response  to  this  call  was  his 
Her  manns  schlacht,,  the  glorification  of  the  first  great  rising 
of  Germanic  yeoman  against  foreign  tyranny. 

Wherever  there  is  a nation  down-trodden  and  enslaved, 
wherever  the  blood  of  the  innocent  cries  to  heaven,  where- 
ever  there  are  souls  thirsting  for  a day  of  retaliation,  this 
mighty  song  of  judgment  will  be  heard.  Here  again  Kleist 
proves  himself  the  man  of  extremes;  here  again  his  passion 
is  all  the  more  unscrupulous  and  unreflecting,  because  it  has 
struggled  through  self-introspection  and  doubt.  The  whole 


^32  Werke  IV,  22. 


133  ib,  28. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  477 


drama  is  like  one  long-drawn  breath  of  exultant  joy  that 
now,  at  last,  the  time  of  theorizing  and  considering  is  over, 
that  the  hour  of  action,  of  relentless,  pitiless  action  has 
come. 

In  the  beginning,  Hermann  himself  is  the  only  one  who 
clearly  recognises  this  hour.  He  recognises  it,  because 
among  a multitude  of  half-hearted  and  selfish  wiseacres  he 
alone  fights,  not  for  his  life,  not  for  his  property,  but  for  an 
idea.  He  is  the  embodiment  of  the  spirit  which  Fichte  in 
his  Addresses  to  the  German  Nation  had  endeavoured  to 
evoke,  the  spirit  of  absolute,  not  to  say  fanatical,  surrender 
to  the  common  cause.  To  free  Germany  from  the  foreign 
yoke — this  is  the  consuming,  the  maddening  passion  of  his 
2ife.  To  accomplish  this,  he  is  ready  to  sacrifice  everything 
and  every  one,  to  break  every  faith,  to  violate  every  prin- 
ciple.^®^ In  order  to  lull  Ventidius,  the  Roman  legate,  into 
a feeling  of  complete  security,  he  encourages  his  frivolous 
advances  to  his  own  wife  Thusnelda.  He  risks  the  life  of 
his  own  children  by  sending  them  as  hostages  to  Marbod. 
He  opens  his  own  territory  to  the  spoliations  of  the  hostile 
army.  He  himself  incites  the  Roman  soldiery  to  outrages 
against  his  people.  On  hearing  of  the  noble  deed  of  the 
Roman  centurion  who  in  the  sacking  of  a Cheruscan  village 
has  saved  a child  from  the  flames,  he  wildly  exclaims 
Er  sei  verflucht,  wenn  er  mir  das  gethan! 

Er  hat  auf  einen  Augenblick 

Mein  Herz  veruntreut,  zum  Verrater 

An  Deutschlands  grosser  Sache  mich  gemacht! 

Ich  will  die  hdhnische  Damonenbrut  nicht  lieben! 

So  lang  sie  in  Germanien  trotzt, 

1st  Hass  mein  Amt,  und  meine  Tugend  Rache! 

The  gradual  spreading  of  this  spirit  of  unconditional,  pas- 
sionate devotion  to  the  national  cause,  the  slow  but  irre- 
sistible surging  on  of  this  wave  of  collective  wrath,  until  at 
last  it  sweeps  over  and  bears  away  the  whole  structure  of 


Cf.  Brahm  /.  c.  292  f. 


HennamtssihL  IV,  9;  Werke  III,  71. 


4/8  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

Roman  perfidy  and  despotism — this  forms  the  dominating 
action  of  the  drama  ; this  is  brought  out,  above  all,  in  the 
way  in  which  Thusnelda  becomes  an  avenger  of  her  coun- 
try’s honour. 

Thusnelda — Thuschen,  as  Hermann  loves  to  call  her — is 
a figure  such  as  only  Kleist  could  create  : all  childlike  in- 
stinct, all  faith,  all  womanliness,  a being  born  to  be  loved, — 
So  was  ein  Deutscher  lieben  nennt, 

Mit  Ehrfurcht  und  mit  Sehnsucht — 

and  at  the  same  time  a fierce,  revengeful,  Penthesilea-like 
barbarian.  The  simple-minded  woman  has  taken  the  atten- 
tions of  Ventidius,  the  gallant  Roman,  seriously.  She  re- 
proaches herself  for  not  having  undeceived  him  at  once,  and 
when  Hermann  makes  fun  of  these  scruples,  her  resentment 
clearly  shows  that  her  feminine  vanity  has  not  remained 
untouched  by  the  flatteries  of  the  shallow  diplomat^®^: 

Dich  macht,  ich  seh’,  dein  Rdmerhass  ganz  blind. 

Weil  als  d^monenartig  dir 

Das  Ganz’  erscheint,  so  kannst  du  dir 

Als  sittlich  nicht  den  Einzelnen  gedenken. 

Hermann  drops  the  subject  and  waits  for  a better  oppor- 
tunity to  open  her  eyes.  One  of  the  symptoms  which  to 
4'husnelda  showed  the  depth  of  Ventidius’s  passion  for  her 
was  that  he  managed  furtively  to  cut  off  a lock  of  her  golden 
hair.  To  this  incident  Hermann  recurs  the  very  day  when 
he  and  Thusnelda,  sitting  under  the  oak  tree,  are  expecting 
the  triumphal  entry  of  the  Roman  army  into  Teutoburg.^*® 

‘‘Well,  Thuschen,  how  you  will  look  after  these  Romans 
have  shaved  your  head  bald  as  a rat ! 

“ The  Romans  ? What  ? ” 

Hermann,  Ja,  was  zum  Henker,  denkst  du  ? 

Die  rdm’schen  Damen  miissen  doch, 

Wenn  sie  sich  schmucken,  hiibsche  Haare  haben? 
Thusnelda,  Nun,  haben  denn  die  rdm’schen  Damen  keine  ? 


Hermannsschl.  II,  8;  1.  c.  2g. 

Ib,  30.  Cf.  for  the  following  III,  3;  41  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  479 


Herm,  Nein,  sag’  ich!  Schwarze!  Schwarz  und  fett,  wie  Hexen! 

Nicht  hubsche,  trock’ne,  gold’ne,  so  wie  du! 

Thusn.  Wohlan!  so  mogen  sie!  Der  trift’ge  Grundi 
Wenn  sie  mit  hiibschen  nicht  begabt, 

So  mogen  sie  mit  schmutz’gen  sich  behelfen! 

Herm,  So!  In  der  That!  Da  sollen  die  Kohorten 

Umsonst  wohl  iiber’n  Rhein  gekommen  sein  ? 

Thusn,  Wer?  Die  Kohorten  ? 

Herm,  Ja,  die  Varus  fiihrt. 

Thusn,  {lachf).  Das  muss  ich  sagen!  Der  wird  doch 
Um  meiner  Haare  nicht  gekommen  sein?  ^ 

Herm,  Was?  Allerdings!  Bei  unsrer  grossen  Hertha! 

Hat  dir  Ventidius  das  noch  nicht  gesagt  ? 

And  now  he  goes  on  in  the  same  grimly  jocose  manner, 
telling  her  how  the  Roman  soldiers  fall  upon  German 
women,  cut  their  hair  and  break  their  teeth,  in  order  that 
the  fine  ladies  in  Rome  be  well  supplied  with  stolen  charms; 
while  Thusnelda  listens  laughing,  wondering,  gasping,  until 
she  finally  breaks  out: 

Thusn,  Bei  alien  Rachegdttern!  alien  Furien! 

Bei  allem  was  die  Holle  finster  macht! 

Mit  welchem  Recht,  wenn  dem  so  ist, 

Vom  Kopf  uns  aber  nehmen  sie  sie  weg  ? 

Herm,  Ich  weiss  nicht,  Thuschen,  wie  du  heut’  dich  stellst. 

Steht  August  nicht  mit  den  Kohorten 
In  alien  Landern  siegreich  aufgepflanzt  ? 

Fiir  wen  erschaffen  ward  die  Welt  als  Rom? 

Nimmt  August  nicht  dem  Elefanten 
Das  Elfenbein,  das  Oel  der  Bisamkatze, 

Dem  Pantertier  das  Fell,  dem  Wurm  die  Seide  ? 

Was  soil  der  Deutsche  hier  zum  voraus  haben  ? 

And  at  last  she  learns  that  the  lock  of  her  own  hair  stolen 
by  Ventidius  was  not  a symbol  of  his  love,  is  not  being 
worn  by  him  nearest  to  his  heart,  but  has  been  sent  to  the 
empress  as  an  outlandish  curiosity.  And  now  her  wrath 
knows  no  bounds.  She  implores  Hermann  to  abandon 
Ventidius  to  her  vengeance,  she  lures  the  traitor  to  a 
secret  rendezvous,  and  commits  him  herself  to  the  em- 


480  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


braces  of  a wild  bear. — In  the  whole  of  William  Tell 
there  is  no  episode  which  in  passionate  intensity  and 
truthfulness  could  be  compared  with  these  Thusnelda 
scenes. 

In  the  spring  of  1809  it  seemed  as  though  Kleist  was 
no  longer  to  be  alone  in  his  dreams  of  national  revenge, 
as  though  the  hour  of  the  German  rising  of 
de^Deu^^^  which  he  had  sung  in  Die  Hermannsschlacht 
had  come  indeed.  Austria  declared  war  upon 
France,  and  all  over  Germany  this  declaration  was  greeted 
as  the  dawn  of  a new  epoch.  The  Austrian  army  rejoiced 
at  the  chance  of  blotting  out  the  memory  of  Austerlitz; 
the  Tirolese  peasants  followed  the  example  of  the  Spanish 
insurgents  ; and  although  Prussia  still  kept  neutral,  yet  here 
also  the  long-suppressed  popular  wrath  found  a voice  in 
the  enthusiasm  aroused  by  Schill’s  glorious,  though  fool- 
hardy, expedition.  Kleist  could  not  be  inactive  in  this  uni- 
versal awakening.  He  hastened  to  the  scene  of  war  itself, 
and  here  he  wrote  those  flaming  manifestoes  in  which  now 
with  the  massive  energy  of  Fichtean  grandiloquence, now 
with  the  simplicity  and  incisiveness  of  a popular  pam- 
phleteer, he  repeats  again  and  again  the  one  thing  needful: 
a common  heart  and  a common  will.  Two  chapters  of 
the  Catechism  for  Germans  will  be  sufficient  to  illustrate 
the  spirit  of  these  heart-stirring  effusions. 

“ Chapter  2.  On  the  Love  of  Cou7ttry,  Q.:  Thou  lovest  thy 
fatherland,  my  son,  dost  thou  not?  A.:  Yes,  my  father,  I do. 
Q.:  Why  dost  thou  love  it?  A.:  Because  it  is  my  fatherland. 
Q.:  Thou  meanest,  because  God  has  blessed  it  with  abundant 
fruit,  because  it  is  adorned  with  beautiful  works  of  art,  because 
heroes,  statesmen,  and  philosophers,  to  whose  names  there  is 
no  end,  have  magnified  it?  A.:  No,  father:  thou  misleadest 
me.  Q.:  I mislead  thee  ? A.:  For  Rome  and  Egypt,  as  thou  hast 


Cf.  especially  ihe  manifesto  Was  gilt  es  in  diesem  Kriege?  Werke 
IV,  278  ft- 

140  IV,  265  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  481 


taught  me,  are  much  more  richly  blest  than  Germany  with  fruit 
and  beautiful  works  of  art  and  whatever  is  great  and  delightful. 
Yet,  if  it  were  thy  son’s  fate  to  live  in  either  of  these  countries, 
he  would  feel  sad  and  never  would  love  it  as  he  loves  Germany. 
Q.:  Why  then  dost  thou  love  Germany?  A.:  My  father,  I have 
told  thee  already.  Q.:  Thou  hast  told  me?  A.:  Because  it  is 
my  fatherland. — Chapter  7.  On  the  Admiration  of  Napoleon, 
Q.:  What  kind  of  a man  dost  thou  consider  Napoleon,  the  Corsi- 
can, the  all-famous  emperor  of  the  French?  A.:  My  father, 
pardon  me,  thou  hast  asked  me  that  already.  Q.:  Say  it  once 
more,  in  the  words  which  I have  taught  thee  ! A.^- A detestable 

man,  the  beginning  of  all  evil  and  the  end  of  all  good;  a sinner,  to 
denounce  whom  men  have  no  language  and  the  angels  of  dooms- 
day have  no  breath.  Q.:  Didst  thou  ever  see  him  ? A.:  Never, 

my  father.  Q.:  How  art  thou  to  imagine  him  to  thyself  ? A.:  As 
the  ghost  of  a parricide,  risen  from  hell,  sneaking  about  in  the 
temple  of  Nature  and  trying  to  shake  the  columns  that  bear  it. 
Q.:  When  hast  thou  repeated  this  to  thyself?  A.:  Last  night 
when  I went  to  bed,  and  this  morning  when  I rose.  Q.:  And 
when  wilt  thou  repeat  it  again?  A.:  To-night  when  I go  to  bed, 
and  to-morrow  when  I rise.  Q.:  And  yet,  they  say,  he  has  many 
virtues.  The  business  of  subduing  the  world,  they  say,  he  man- 
ages with  shrewdness,  agility,  and  boldness;  and  especially  on 
the  day  of  battle,  they  say,  he  is  a great  leader.  A.:  Yes,  my 
father,  so  they  say.  Q. : Dost  thou  not  think  that  for  these 
qualities  he  deserves  admiration?  A.:  Thou  jestest,  my  father. 
Q.:  Why  not  ? A.:  That  would  be  as  cowardly  as  though  I were 

to  admire  the  athletic  power  of  a man  in  the  moment  in  which  he 
throws  me  into  the  mud  and  tramples  upon  my  face.  Q.:  Who, 
then,  among  the  Germans  may  admire  him?  A.:  The  generals, 
perhaps,  and  they  who  know  the  art  of  war.  Q.:  And  even  these, 
when  only  may  they  do  it  ? A.:  When  he  is  crushed.” 

What  poet  has  ever  sung  more  sublimely  of  the  great 
concerns  of  human  life,  tradition,  home,  freedom,  right, 
than  Kleist  in  this  homely  and  unpretentious  Catechis7n  ? 

The  battle  of  Wagram  destroyed  at  one  stroke  all  the 
exultant  hopes  with  which  the  Austrian  war 
had  been  begun.  The  future  of  Germany  seemed  ^omburg^ 
darker  than  ever,  the  foreign  yoke  seemed  fas- 
tened upon  it  indissolubly  and  for  all  time.  Once  more 


482  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

Kleist’s  ideals  had  been  shattered.  For  a time  he  seems  to 
have  brooded  over  a mad  design  of  assassinating  Napoleon. 
At  last  he  returned  weary  and  broken  to  his  Prussian  home, 
from  which  since  1807  he  had  been  absent.  Here  mean- 
while a momentous  change  had  taken  place.  The  Prussia 
of  1806  was  dead,  and  a new  Prussia,  the  Prussia  of  Stein, 
of  Fichte,  of  Schleiermacher  had  arisen.  Kleist  saw  before 
him  a people  such  as  the  Addresses  to  the  German  Nation 
had  aimed  to  create,  a people  which  seemed  the  embodiment 
of  noblest  service  and  devotion  to  common  duty,  a people 
ready  to  sacrifice  everything  in  order  to  regain  a dignified 
national  existence.  The  sight  of  this  people  wrung  from 
Kleist  his  last  work  and  his  sanest,  the  drama  which  has 
given  to  the  German  stage  the  finest  type  of  military 
discipline,  which  has  surrounded  the  Brandenburg  of  the 
great  Elector  with  the  halo  of  immortal  poetry  : Der 
Prinz  von  Homburg  (1810). 

The  history  of  literature  knows  of  no  other  poetic  pro- 
duction which,  born  from  an  equally  deep  individual  ex- 
perience, has  at  the  same  time  in  a more  emphatic  manner 
manifested  in  itself  the  concentrated  thought  of  a whole 
epoch  than  does  this  wonderful  poem.  No  other  figure  of 
Kleist’s  imagination  bears  a more  striking  resemblance  to 
Kleist  himself  than  this  wayward  dreamer  who  under  the 
stress  of  necessity  becomes  a man  ; and  no  other  figure 
is  a finer  type  of  the  return  of  Romanticism  from  capri- 
cious self-indulgence  and  aesthetic  revelry  to  the  simple  and 
all-important  duties  of  common  life. 

An  indescribable  charm  lies  over  those  first  scenes  of 
the  drama  where  the  young  hero  merged  into  the  sweet 
illusion  of  a moonlit  summer-night  is  carried  away  by  the 
vision  of  the  ideals  that  swell  his  heart  : the  laurel  wreath 
of  fame;  the  favour  of  his  lord,  the  Elector;  the  love  of 
the  princess  Natalie.  Yet,  irresistible  as  this  unalloyed  and 
boyish  enthusiast  is,  we  feel  at  once  that  he  lacks  the  steady 
purpose  and  self-mastery  which  transforms  genius  into  cha- 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  4^3 

racter.  His  country  is  in  the  most  pressing  danger,  the  Swedes 
have  swept  over  the  larger  part  of  Brandenburg  and  are 
threatening  Berlin,  it  is  the  eve  of  a decisive  battle.  The 
prince  of  Homburg  seems  to  feel  nothing  of  all  this.  Dis- 
tracted and  absent-minded,  he  attends  the  meeting  of  the 
generals  at  which  the  orders  for  the  next  day  are  issued. 
Mechanically  and  listlessly  he  receives  his  own  order  not  to 
advance  until  the  enemy  is  routed.  What  is  the  plan  of 
battle  to  him  ? He  still  sees  Natalie  holding  out  to  him 
the  laurel-wreath  adorned  with  the  Elector’s  golden  chain, 
he  still  seems  to  follow  her  while  she  retreats,  he  again 
seems  to  grasp  her  arm,  and  again  to  see  the  vision  fade. 
In  this  frame  of  mind  he  enters  the  battle.  It  is  intolerable 
to  him  to  be  condemned  to  wait.  Against  his  orders, 
against  the  protests  of  his  officers,  he  advances  with  his 
squadrons  at  the  very  height  of  the  combat,  and  thereby 
decides  the  victory.  A rumour  spreads  that  the  Elector 
himself  has  fallen  from  his  horse.  The  victorious  general 
feels  himself  the  head  of  the  whole  army,  of  the  whole  state  ; 
and  at  this  very  moment  he  is  made  to  feel  that  Natalie 
is  his.  Beside  himself,  frenzied  with  passionate  elation,  he 
exclaims  ***: 

O Caesar  Divus  ! 

Die  Leiter  setz  ich  an,  an  deinen  Stern  I 

But  the  Elector  has  not  fallen  in  the  battle.  He  lives, 
and  he  is  determined  to  chastise  the  disobedient  general. 
In  him  Kleist  has  created  the  ideal  type  of  a Hohenzollern 
ruler,  a figure  which  suggests  the  venerable  features  of  the 
old  emperor  William.  Not  a trace  of  wilfulness,  of  arro- 
gance in  him.  A simple,  upright  man;  kind,  yet  austere; 
gentle  in  his  feelings,  but  chary  of  utterance.  A prince 
who  loves  a frank,  manly  word,  whose  heart  is  with  his 
subjects,  a true  father  of  his  people,  yet  stern  as  the  law 
itself  against  the  violator  of  the  law.  He  is  unwilling  to 


141  Prinz  V.  Homb.  II,  8;  Werke  III,  147. 


4^4  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


accept  victory  from  a lawless  chance:  the  prince  of  Hom- 
burg  is  court-martialled  and  sentenced  to  death. 

Once  again  does  Kleist  make  his  hero  go  to  the  extreme 
of  passionate  emotion.  The  same  man  who  with  reck- 
less bravery  had  plunged  into  the  thick  of  battle,  loses  all 
self-respect  and  self-control  at  the  thought  of  the  grave. 
He  begs  for  his  life,  he  whines  for  pity,  he  is  willing  to  re- 
nounce Natalie  if  only  he  can  save  his  own  miserable  exist- 
ence. And  he  rises  from  this  self-degradation  only  when 
the  Elector,  moved  by  the  pitiful  spectacle,  calls  upon  the 
prince  himself  to  judge  his  own  transgression:  if  he  himself 
considers  the  verdict  unjust  he  is  to  be  free.  Now  at  last 
Homburg  recovers  his  moral  equilibrium,  now  at  last  he 
becomes  fully  himself.  He  submits  to  the  law,  he  acknow- 
ledges his  guilt,  he  asks  for  death,  he  exults  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  giving  himself  as  a sacrifice  to  eternal  order 

Nun,  o Unsterblichkeit,  hist  du  ganz  mein! 

Du  strahlst  mir  durch  die  Binde  meiner  Augen 

Mit  Glanz  der  tausendfachen  Sonne  zu, — 

and  now  he  is  worthy  to  be  pardoned.  The  whole  has  pre- 
vailed over  the  individual.  Romanticism  has  returned  to 
the  classic  ideal. 

It  was  not  given  to  Kleist  himself  to  reach  the  moral 
harmony  for  which  nearly  all  of  his  heroes  strive  and  which 
the  prince  of  Homburg  so  gloriously  attains.  Misjudged 
by  his  time,  neglected  by  his  friends,  at  last  rejected  even 
by  those  dearest  to  him,  he  turned  away  from  this  world  in 
gloom  and  despair,  he  did  not  see  the  day  of  glory.  But 
he,  too,  no  less  than  the  thousands  who  died  on  the  fields  of 
Leipzig  and  Waterloo,  must  be  numbered  among  the  mar- 
tyrs for  freedom  and  right.^^® 

Prinz  von  Homb.  V,  lo;  /.  c.  194. 

143  Never  has  a man  of  genius  suffered  such  bitter  disappointment 
and  ignominy  as  Heinrich  von  Kleist.  Of  his  principal  works,  Das 
Kathchen  von  Heilbronn  was  the  onh^  one  which  received  even  so 
much  as  a respectful  hearing.  Der  zerbrochc7ie  Krug  was  a complete 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  485 


One  cannot  help  feeling  a certain  disenchantment  when 
one  turns  from  Heinrich  von  Kleist  to  a man  who  in  so 

many  ways  was  his  opposite:  Ludwig  Uhland/^^ 

^ y . 1 r , Coiitrast  and 

There,  the  passionate  struggles  of  a litan;  here,  affinity  be- 

the  quiet  labour  of  a conscientious  artist.  There,  tween  Kleist 
a fiery  enthusiast,  consumed  by  the  desire  to 
snatch  the  crown  of  glory  from  the  head  of  the  immor- 
tals here,  a simple  man  of  the  people,  knowing  of  no 
greater  joy  than  to  stand  by  his  window  and  listen  to  ca- 
rousing students  singing  his  own  songs.  There,  a mind 
brooding  over  the  deepest  problems,  craving  for  the  highest 
ideals;  convulsive  efforts,  sudden  outbursts  of  the  soul;  and 

failure  on  the  Weimar  stage.  Penthesilea  was  found  so  shocking 
that  its  publisher,  Cotta,  was  not  even  willing  to  advertise  it.  And 
neither  Die  Hermann sschlacht  nor  the  political  pamphlets  nor  even 
Der  Prinz  von  Hamburg  saw  the  light  of  publicity  during  Kleist's  life- 
time. When,  at  last,  even  his  sister  Ulrike  turned  away  from  him, 
he  could  live  no  longer.  Together  with  Henriette  Vogel  he  committed 
suicide,  Nov.  21,  i8ti. 

Although  the  first  collection  of  Uhland’s  poems  did  not  appear 
until  1815,  most  of  his  best  known  songs  and  ballads  were  written  a 
good  deal  earlier.  Der  blinde  Konig^  Die  sterbenden  Helden  1804;  Die 
Kapelle,  Schafers  Sonntagslied,  Das  Sckloss  am  Meere  1805;  Des  Kna- 
ben  Berglied,  Abschied  1806;  Lebewohl  1807;  Klein  Roland  1808;  Der 
Wirtin  Tdchterlein,  Der  gute  K artier  ad  1809;  Die  Rache  1810;  Mor^ 
genlied,  Abreise,  Einkehr,  Heimkehr,  Der  weisse  Hirsch,  Roland  Schild- 
trdger,  Mdrchen  1811  ; Fruhlingsglaube,  Siegfrieds  Schwert,  Konig 
Karls  Meerfahrt^  Taillefer  1812;  Lied  eines  deutschen  Sanger s^  An  das 
Taterland^  Sdngerliebe^  Schwdbische  Kunde^  Des  Sanger s Fluch  1814. 
It  is  rather  remarkable  that  none  of  Uhland’s  finest  poems  belongs  to 
the  year  1813.  After  1815,  represented  by  Graf  Eberh,ard  der  Rau- 
schebart^  and  1816,.  in  which  were  written  Das  alte  gute  Rechty  Am 
18.  October  1816,  Das  Herz  fur  unser  Volk^  Uhland  became  less  and 
less  prolific.  Yet  even  among  his  later  poetry  there  are  such  wonder- 
ful creations  as  Auf  der  Ueberfahrt  1823;  Bertran  de  Born,  Der  Wal- 
ler, Milnstersage,  Ver  Sacrum,  Tells  I'od  1829;  Wander ung.  Die  Bi- 
das  soabriicke,  Das  Gliick  von  Edenhall,  Die  versunkene  Krone  1834. 

145  werde  ihm  den  Kranz  von  der  Stirne  reissen  — a word  of 

Kleist’s  spoken  with  reference  to  Goethe  ; Brahm  /.  c.  iii. 


486  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

at  last  a despairing  plunge  into  the  darkness.  Here  a gen- 
tle heart  and  a strong  will;  an  early  blossoming  of  a pure 
and  harmonious  imagination;  long  years  of  public  usefulness 
and  unflinching  consecration  to  national  tasks;  and  at  last  a 
serene  and  honoured  old  age,  devoted  to  scholarly  research. 

And  yet  these  two  men  belong  together.  They  are  op- 
posite types  of  the  same  intellectual  movement.  They  both 
represent  the  turning  away  of  Romantic  poetry  from  caprice 
to  law,  from  negation  to  construction,  from  the  individual- 
istic to  the  collectivistic  ideal. 

David  Friedrich  Strauss  seems  to  have  been  the  first  to 
call  Uhland  the  classic  of  Romanticism.^^®  It  is  impossible 
TTHand  tlie  characterize  the  Suabian  singer  in  few  words 
classic  of  more  truthfully.  In  him  there  is  nothing  of  the 
Eomanticism.  extravagance  of  a Friedrich  Schlegel,  nothing 
of  the  mistiness  of  a Novalis,  nothing  of  the  lurid  fatalism 
of  a Tieck  or  a Zacharias  Werner.  It  seems  as  though  the 
voluptuous  dream  of  Romanticism  had  touched  his  soul 
only  to  give  him  a fuller  sense  of  sober  reality;  as  though 
all  its  nightly  phantoms  had  only  helped  to  open  his  eyes  to 
the  spirits  that  walk  in  the  light  of  day  as  though  the 
Wild  Chase  of  the  supernatural  had  passed  over  his  head 
only  to  make  him  see  all  the  more  clearly  the  wonders  hid- 
den in  the  natural  and  the  normal.^^®  His  figures  walk  up- 

Cf.  Fr.  Th.  Vischer,  Ludwig  Uhland  in  his  Kritische  Gdnge,  N, 
F.,  IV,  148. — Cf.,  also,  Uhland" s Leben  von  seiner  Wittwe  (1874). 
Hermann  Fischer,  L,  Uhland  (1887).  fl*  Hassenstein,  L,  Uhland 
(1887). 

Cf.  Uhland’s  definition  of  a romantic  scenery  : “ Fine  Gegend 
ist  romantisch,  wo  Geister  wandeln”;  Jul.  Schmidt,  Gesch.  d,  d.  Lilt, 

IV,  335. 

^48  This  distinguishes  Uhland  from  his  friend  Justinus  Kerner  (1786- 
1862).  In  spite  of  his  deep  sense  of  nature  (cf,  the  poem  Der  Ein- 
same)  and  in  spite  of  his  talent  for  naive  healthy  enjoyment  (cf.  the 
Wander  lied : * Wohlauf  ! noch  getrunken ')  there  is  an  undercurrent 
of  morbid  supranaturalism  in  Kerner’s  poetry.  Gustav  Schwab,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  author  of  Der  Reiter  und  der  Bodensee  (1826^ 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  487 

right  and  on  solid  ground.  They  are  sound  and  sane;  chaste 
and  true;  blue-eyed  children  of  the  Black  Forest,  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  charm  of  popular  tradition  and  native 
belief;  poetic  types  of  a healthy  common  consciousness; 
eternal  symbols  of  the  abiding  and  preserving  forces  of  hu- 
man life.  And  if  in  Kleist  we  saw  the  birth-throes  of  an 
age  labouring  with  new  forms  of  national  existence,  we  gain 
from  Uhland’s  poems  the  impression  that  the  rejuvenation 
of  the  national  body  had  already  been  accomplished. 

Even  in  his  earliest  songs,  which  to  a certain  extent  show 
the  influence  of  the  morbid  and  fantastic  in  Romanticism, 
there  is  a clearness  of  vision,  a simplicity  and  His  begin- 
depth  of  sentiment,  which  separate  them  from  nings, 
anything  that  Tieck  ever  wrote,  and  which  place  them  by 
the  side  of  Goethe  and  the  Volkslied.  How  is  it  possible  that 
in  view  of  such  wonderful  poems  as  Die  Kapelle^  Schafers 
Sonntagslied,  Das  Schloss  am  Meere  (1805),  Des  Knaben 
Berglied^  Abschied  (1806),  a man  like  Scherer  could  speak 
contemptuously  of  fair  shepherds  and  kings  and  queens 
with  red  mantles  and  golden  crowns  ’’  ? Even  here  the 
Romantic  form  is  imbued  with  the  most  real,  the  most  uni- 
versally human  feeling;  even  here  there  speaks,  not  the  ca- 
pricious child  of  an  artificial  culture,  but  a man  whose  heart 
beats  in  common  with  the  highest  and  the  lowest  of  his 
fellow  men;  even  here  there  is  reflected  a collective  rather 
than  an  individual  consciousness.  And  it  certainly  is  more 
than  a mere  accident  that  the  shepherd,  kneeling  down  for 
his  prayer  on  Sunday  morning,  feels  ‘‘  as  though  many  were 
kneeling  unseen  with  him  that  the  mountain  boy, 

much  as  he  delights  in  the  freedom  of  rock  and  ravine, 

falls  far  behind  Uhland  in  depth  of  feeling  and  power  of  representa- 
tion. Nearest  to  Uhland,  among  the  poets  influenced  by  him,  comes 
Eduard  Mdrike  in  such  poems  as  Sckdn-Rohtraut,  Das  verlassene 
Magdlein,  and  others  {Gedichte  1838). 

Gesch.  d.  d.  Litt.  p.  653.  Cf.  Uhland's  Gedichte  u.  Dramen  II,  8. 

Schafers  Sonntagslied ; Gedichte  u.  Dramen  I,  22. 


488  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

much  as  he  glories  in  living  above  the  clouds  that  bear 
lightning  and  thunder  into  the  valley,  also  thinks  of  the 
time  when  he  shall  descend  from  his  heights  and  wield  the 
sword  in  defence  of  his  country 

Und  wann  die  Sturmglock’  einst  erschallt, 

Manch  Feuer  auf  den  Bergen  walk, 

Dann  steig’  ich  nieder,  tret’  ins  Glied 

Und  schwing’  mein  Schwert  und  sing’  mein  Lied: 

Ich  bin  der  Knab’  vom  Berge! 

The  most  productive  period  of  Uhland's  life  falls  in  that 
momentous  epoch  with  which  from  so  many  different  points 
His  maturity.  view  we  have  already  become  familiar,  the 
The  demo-  years  from  the  deepest  national  degradation  to  the 
racter  ofhis  delivery  from  the  foreign  yoke.  And  here 

poetry.  we  see  most  clearly  that  what  gives  to  Uhland’s 

poetry  its  most  distinctive  character  is  that  democracy  of 
heart  which  is  the  surest  sign  of  true  nobility,  and  which 
determined  Uhland’s  attitude  in  all  the  great  questions  of 
his  time,  from  the  struggle  against  Napoleon  and  the  consti- 
tutional conflicts  in  Wiirtemberg  to  the  Revolution  of  1848. 

What  poet  ever  knew  better  how  the  common  man  feels 
than  he,  what  poet  has  surrounded  ordinary  experiences 
with  a deeper  glow  of  imagination  ? Nowhere  has  hidden 
love  been  depicted  more  touchingly  than  in  Der  Wirtin 
Tdchterlein,^  or  the  fellowship  of  danger  more  simply  and 
truly  than  in  Der  gute  Kamerad  (1809).  Nowhere  has  the 
humorous  enjoyment  of  harmless  pleasure  found  a more 
perfect  artistic  expression  than  in  the  praise  of  “mine 
host,  the  bounteous  apple  tree  ” {^Einkehr,^  1811).  There  is 
no  love  song  quivering  with  more  genuine  passion  than 
those  few  lines  ^Heimkehr,,  1811)  which  seem  like  the  in- 
voluntary emitting  of  a breath  long  suppressed: 

O,  brich  nicht  Steg  ! du  zitterst  sehr. 

O,  stiirz  nicht  Pels  ! du  drauest  schwer. 

Welt,  geh  nicht  unter;  Himmel,  fall  nicht  ein, 

Eh’  ich  mag  bei  der  Liebsten  sein  ! 


Des  Knaben  Berglied  ; 1.  c,  I,  25. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  489 

And  what  a difference  there  is  between  Uhland’s  medi- 
aeval figures  and  those  of  other  Romanticists!  Klein  Roland 
(1808),  Roland Schildtrdger  {iZii) ^ Siegfrieds  Schwert,  Konig 
Karls  Meerfahrt^  Taillefer^  Sdngerliebe^  Schwdbische  Kuitde^ 
Des  Sdngers  Fluch  (1814)  — what  a galaxy  of  beauty,  of 

joyousness,  of  exultant  vitality,  of  foolhardy  combativeness, 
and  at  the  same  time  of  gentleness,  of  childlike  trust, 
of  serene  moderation,  and  humble  wisdom  these  names 
call  up!  Here  the  spirit  of  the  Nibelungenlied  seems  to 
be  united  with  that  of  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide. 
Through  all  the  martial  clamour  and  splendour  there 
sounds  a prophecy  of  peace  and  justice  ; and  in  all  the 
high-flown  wooing  and  daring  we  recognise  a strongly 
developed  feeling  for  the  common  good.  However  romantic 
the  scenery,  however  fabulous  the  incidents,  we  never  for 
a moment  lose  the  impression  that  here  our  own  kinsmen 
are  speaking  and  acting.  And  whether  it  be  young  Roland 
stepping  into  the  king’s  palace  as  unconcernedly  ‘‘  as  into 
the  forest  green”;  whether  it  be  young  Siegfried  driving  the 
anvil  into  the  ground  and  forging  his  owm  swojd;  whether 
it  be  King  Charles  sitting  at  the  helm  and  quietly  steer- 
ing the  ship  through  the  gale  ; whether  it  be  Taillefer  rid- 
ing at  the  head  of  the  Normans  and  inspiring  them  with 
his  song  ; whether  it  be  the  hoary  bard  cursing  the  castle 
of  the  murderous  despot: — they  all  seem  to  bring  before  us 
the  ideal  of  a nation,  pious  and  free,  strong  and  true  ; they 
all  remind  us  of  the  words  in  which  Uhland  has  expressed 
his  own  “heart  for  the  people  ” : 

An  unsrer  Vater  Thaten 
flit  Liebe  sich  erbaun, 

Fortpflanzen  ihre  Saaten, 

Dem  alten  Grund  vertraun; 

Only  such  poems  are  mentioned  here  as  are  contained  in  the 
Gedichte  of  1815.  Among  later  poems  dealing  with  mediseval  sub- 
jects, Bertran  de  Born  and  Der  Waller  (both  1829)  stand  out  as  per- 
haps marking  the  climax  of  Uhland’s  art. 

Herz  fiir  unser  Volk  ; 1.  c.  I,  116. 


490  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


In  solchem  Angedenken 
Des  Landes  Heil  erneun; 

Um  unsre  Schmach  sich  kranken 
Sich  unsrer  Ehre  freun; 

Sein  eignes  Ich  vergessen 
In  aller  Lust  und  Schmerz: 

Das  nennt  man,  wohl  ermessen, 
Fiir  unser  Volk  ein  Herz. 


Next  to  Schiller,  Uhland  is  the  most  popular  of  all 
German  poets;  and  justly  so.  For  he  has  shown  the  Ger- 
TTUandtlie  man  people  their  better  self;  he  has  shown  the 

aennan^^  world  what  a wealth  of  strength,  of  bravery,  of 

people.  humour,  of  goodness,  of  inspiration,  slumbers 

beneath  the  modest  and  quiet  exterior  of  this  people  ; he 
has  glorified  those  unpretentious  and  emphatically  German 
virtues  : faithfulness  and  patience.  And  when  toward  the 
end  of  his  life,  at  a time  when  the  muse  had  long  since  taken 
leave  of  him,  he  wrote  those  lines  of  noble  resignation 


Das  Lied,  es  mag  am  Lebensabend  schweigen, 
Sieht  nur  der  Geist  dann  heil’ge  Sterne  steigen — 


he  unwittingly  told  the  innermost  secret  of  his  own  poetry, 
a poetry  over  which  there  stand  hallowed  stars,  visible  to 
all,  though  intelligible  to  none. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  Uhland  sang  of  young  Sieg- 
fried and  of  Taillefer,  Napoleon  retreated  from  Moscow. 

A few  months  later  (March  17,  1813),  the  king 
The  national  p^ugsia,  driven  by  an  irresistible  tide  of  popu- 

nnrising.  . . ir  r 

lar  enthusiasm,  called  his  people  to  arms.^^^  And 
now  at  last  the  time  had  come  for  which  Klopstock  and 


164  Written  in  1854;  /.  c.  II,  315. 

Here  are  some  passages  from  the  proclamation  To  my  People 
(Hausser,  D.  Gesck.  v.  Tode  Friedr.  d.  Gr.  b z.  Griind.  d.  d.  Bundes) 
IV,  57  f.):  “ Remember  your  past;  remember  the  blessings  for  which 
our  ancestors  have  bled  and  struggled  : freedom  of  conscience,  honour, 
independence,  industry,  devotion  to  the  arts,  the  pursuit  of  science. 
Even  little  peoples  have  taken  up  arms  for  like  privileges  against 
more  powerful  foes,  and  have  triumphed.  Think  of  the  heroic  Swiss 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  4QI 


Lessing,  Goethe  and  Schiller,  Fichte  and  Schleiermacher, 
for  which  all  the  thinkers  and  seers  of  the  last  seventy  years 
had  worked  and  hoped,  toward  which  both  Classicism  and 
Romanticism  had  inevitably  been  drifting:  the  time  of  po- 
litical unity  and  greatness. 

Of  the  spirit  which  impelled  the  German  people  in  the 
mighty  struggle  that  was  now  at  hand,  it  is  hard  to  form  an 
adequate  conception.  A glimpse  of  it  we  seem 
to  catch  in  a little  scene  the  memory  of  which 
has  been  preserved  by  Friedrich  Forster,  the 
friend  and  comrade  of  Theodor  Korner.  Forster  belonged 
like  Korner  to  the  Liitzow  volunteers,  that  noble  band  of 
German  youth  who,  largely  from  the  academies  and  univer- 
sities, had  flocked  to  the  Prussian  colours,  a corps  of  war- 
riors whose  boyishly  romantic  enthusiasm  forms  one  of  the 
brightest  spots  in  military  history.  On  their  march  from 
Silesia  where  they  had  mustered  to  the  scene  of  war,  Fors- 
ter’s regiment  about  the  middle  of  April  had  reached  the 
town  of  Meissen,  and  here  the  incident  took  place  which 
he  himself  describes  in  the  following  manner^®®: 

“ We  had  just  finished  our  morning  song  in  front  of  the  inn  in 
which  our  captain  was  quartered  when  I saw  a man  whose  features 
seemed  familiar  to  me  entering  a mail-coach.  I could  hardly 
believe  my  eyes  when  I saw  it  was  Goethe  ! As  a friend  of  his 
son  I had  often  been  in  his  house;  but  I could  not  explain  to  myself 
how  he,  the  man  of  peace,  should  have  ventured  into  the  midst 
of  this  commotion  of  war.  I still  thought  I had  been  mistaken, 
especially  since  he  had  pulled  a military  cap  over  his  eyes  and 
was  wrapped  in  a Russian  general’s  mantle.  But  when  I saw 
his  little  secretary,  friend  John,  step  up  to  the  coach,  I was  sure 
it  was  he,  and  at  once  communicated  the  glorious  discovery  to 
my  comrades.  With  a military  salute  I now  approached  the  coach 

and  the  Dutch.  Great  sacrifices  will  be  required  of  all.  But  these 
sacrifices  are  slight  compared  with  the  sacred  possessions  for  which 
we  make  them,  for  which  we  must  battle  and  triumph,  or  cease  being 
Germans.”  The  author  of  the  proclamation  was  Hippel. 

Cf.  A.  Kohut,  Theodor  Korner  : s.  Leben  u.  s.  Dichtungen  p.  173. 
Fr.  Forster,  Goethes  Leben  u.  Werke  ; Goethe’s  Hempel  I,  168. 


492  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  said  : ‘ I beg  to  report  to  your  excellency  that  a company  of 
Royal  Prussian  Volunteers  of  the  Black  Rifle  Corps,  en  route 
for  Leipzig,  have  drawn  up  before  your  headquarters  and  desire 
to  salute  your  excellency.’  The  captain  gave  the  command  : 
‘ Present  arms  !’  and  I called  : ‘ The  poet  of  all  poets,  Goethe, 
hurrah!’  The  band  played  and  the  whole  company  cheered. 
He  touched  his  cap  and  nodded  kindly.  Now  I once  more 
stepped  up  to  him  and  said  : ‘ It  is  no  use  for  your  excellency  to 
try  to  keep  your  incognito;  the  Black  Riflemen  have  sharp  eyes, 
and  to  meet  Goethe  at  the  beginning  of  our  march  was  too  good 
an  omen  to  pass  unnoticed.  We  ask  from  you  a blessing  for  our 
arms!’  ‘ With  all  my  heart,’ he  said.  I held  out  my  gun  and  sword; 
he  laid  his  hand  on  them  and  said:  ‘ March  forward  with  God! 
and  may  all  good  things  be  granted  to  your  joyous  German  cour- 
age ! ’ While  we  again  cheered  him,  still  saluting  he  drove  past  us.” 

The  same  naive,  undefiled  enthusiasm  which  is  revealed 
in  this  little  episode  is  manifested  in  the  whole  record  of 
the  years  1813-15.  We  see  it  in  the  appearance  of  a ‘ Cam- 
paign and  Tent  Edition  * of  the  Nibelungenlied}^’'  We  see 
it  in  that  scene  described  by  professor  Steffens  of  Breslau 
where  he  called  upon  his  assembled  students  to  desert  their 
studies  and  to  follow  him  to  the  recruiting-ground/®®  We 
see  it  in  that  most  touching  of  war  contributions,  the  golden 
wedding-rings  which  the  Prussian  women  gave  in  exchange 
for  iron  ones.^^^  We  see  it  in  the  religious  fervour  with 
which  whole  regiments  attended  the  communion  service  be- 
fore setting  out  for  the  holy  war.’'  And  we  hear  it  in  all 
the  war  lyrics  of  those  years,  from  Schenkendorf s sweet, 
melodious  prophecies  of  a new  realm  of  poetry  and  free- 
dom, to  the  stormy  battle-cries  of  Korner,  from  the  solemn 
and  measured  trombone  sound  of  Riickert’s  Geharnischte 
Sonette  to  the  joyous  trumpet-call  and  the  deep  organ- 
strains  of  Ernst  Moritz  Arndt.^®^ 

The  editor  was  Prof.  Zeune  of  Berlin  University. 

Cf.  Henrich  Steffens,  Was  ich  erlebte  VII,  71  ff. 

Hausser  /.  c.  IV,  50. 

Cf.  H.  V.  Treitschke,  D.  Gesch.  i.  i^.  Jhdt  I,  428  ff. 

>61  A collection  of  them  DNL,  CXCVI. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  493 

Germany  is  rising,”  with  these  words  Theodor  Kor- 
ner  informs  his  father  of  his  decision  to  sacrifice  the  hopes 
of  a life  graced  with  the  happiness  of  youthful  love,  teeming 
with  promises  of  literary  fame,  “ Germany  is  rising,  the 
Prussian  eagle  by  his  bold  flight  awakens  in  all  faithful 
hearts  the  hope  of  German  liberty.  My  art  sighs  for  her 
fatherland — let  me  be  her  worthy  disciple! — Now  that  I 
know  what  bliss  there  is  in  this  life,  now  that  all  the  stars 
of  happiness  shine  upon  me,  now,  by  God!  it  is  a worthy 
feeling  that  impels  me;  now  it  is  a mighty  conviction  that 
no  sacrifice  is  too  great  for  the  highest  human  good,  the 
freedom  of  one’s  people.  A great  time  demands  great 
hearts.  Shall  I in  cowardly  ecstasy  drawl  my  triumphal 
songs  while  my  brethren  fight  the  battle  ? I know  you 
will  suffer  many  anxieties  from  it,  my  mother  will  weep — 
God  comfort  her  ! I cannot  save  you  this.”  And  a few 
hours  before  his  death  on  the  field  of  honour,  he  sings  that 
rapturous  bridal  song  to  his  sword 

So  komm  denn  aus  der  Scheide 
Du  Reiters  Augenweide, 

Heraus,  mein  Schwert,  heraus! 

Fiihr’  dich  in’s  Vaterhaus! 

Hurrah! 

Erst  that  es  an  der  Linken 
Nur  ganz  verstohlen  blinken; 

Doch  an  die  Rechte  traut 
Gott  sichtbarlich  die  Braut! 

Hurrah! 

Drum  driickt  den  liebeheissen 
Br^utlichen  Mund  von  Eisen 
An  eure  Lippen  fest. 

Fluch!  wer  die  Braut  verlasst! 

Hurrah! 

Nun  lasst  das  Liebchen  singen, 

Dass  helle  Funken  springen! 


Th.  Korner’s  SdmmtL  Werke  ed.  Streckfuss  I,  33  I, 
Ib,  108  ff. 


494  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Dei  Hochzeitmorgen  graul  *- 
Hurrah  ! du  Eisenbraut  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

And  of  the  same  spirit,  only  still  mere  ragged  and  more 
mature,  is  Arndt,  the  Bliicher  of  German  lyrics  After 
he  has  thundered  forth  his  mighty  song  of  ‘ The  God  who 
let  the  iron  grow,’  after  he  has  accompanied  the  stalwart 
riders  through  battle  and  death,  after  he  has  rung  out  the 
tidings  of  Leipzig’s  bloody  judgment-day,  after  he  has  sung 
the  glorious  hymn  of  German  unity,  he  still  has  breath  for 
that  splendid  outburst  of  joy  and  gratitude  and  boundless 
trust  which  comes  upon  us  with  the  overwhelming  force  of 
a chorus  from  Handel’s  Judas  Maccabeus^^^ : 

Wem  soli  der  erste  Dank  erschallen? 

Dem  Gott,  der  gross  und  wunderbar 
Aus  langer  Schande  Nacht  uns  alien 
In  Flammenglanz  erschienen  war; 

Der  unsrer  Feinde  Trotz  zerblitzet, 

Der  unsre  Kraft  uns  schdn  erneut, 

Und  auf  den  Sternen  waltend  sitzet 
Von  Ewigkeit  zu  Ewigkeit, 

Wem  soil  der  zweite  Wunsch  ertbnen? 

Des  Vaterlandes  Majestat  ! 

Verderben  alien  die  es  hdhnen  ! 

Gliick  dem  der  mit  ihm  fallt  und  steht ! 

Es  geh’,  durch  Tugenden  bewundert, 

Geliebt  durch  Ehrlichkeit  und  Recht, 

Stolz  von  Jahrhundert  zu  Jahrhundert, 

An  Kraft  und  Ehren  ungeschwacht ! 

Riickt  dichter  in  der  heil’gen  Runde 
Und  klingt  den  letzten  Jubelklang! 

Von  Herz  zu  Herz,  von  Mund  zu  Munds 
Erbrause  freudig  der  Gesang! 

Das  Wort,  das  unsern  Bund  geschiirzet, 

Das  Heil,  das  uns  kein  Teufel  raubt 
Und  kein  Tyrannentrug  uns  kiirzet, 

Das  sei  gehalten  und  geglaubt! 

An  excellent  characterization  of  Arndt  by  R.  Haym  in  Ftmss, 
Jahrb.  V.  470  ff.  For  Arndt’s  Geist  der  Zeit  cf.  supra  p.  437  £ 
Bundeslied  ; Ernst  Moritz  Arndt’s  Gedichtt  (i860)  p.  212 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  495 

Joyousness,  exultant,  jubilant  joyousness — this  is  perhaps 
the  word  which  best  characterizes  the  whole  German  rising 
against  Napoleon.  There  is  hardly  a trace  in  it  of  that  dark 
desperate  hatred  which  gave  such  a sinister  aspect  to  Hein- 
rich von  Kleist’s  patriotic  effusions.  Its  dominant  note  is 
a feeling  of  unspeakable  delight  that  at  last  all  the  little 
provincial  rivalries  have  been  forgotten,  that  for  once  the 
differences  of  class,  of  religion,  of  education  have  been 
swept  away;  that  for  once  there  is  nothing  but  one  grand 
common  cause,  one  heaven  and  one  earth  for  ad  who  speak 
and  think  and  dream  German.  It  is  as  though  the  whole 
past  of  the  nation  were  crowded  into  one  supreme  moment, 
as  though  old  Barbarossa  had  risen  from  the  sleep  of  cen- 
turies and  brought  back  the  splendour  of  the  ancient  empire, 
as  though  the  Nibelungen  heroes  were  striding  by  the  side 
of  the  Black  Hussars,  as  though  the  pillars  and  vaults  of 
Gothic  cathedrals  were  once  more  embracing  a united  peo- 
ple, as  though  a new  ‘ Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott ' were 
bursting  forth  from  every  German  heart.  Wonderful,  divine 
years!  ample  reward  for  all  the  sufferings  and  humiliations 
of  a long  servitude,  glorious  climax  of  more  than  half  a cen- 
tury of  unremitting  intellectual  effort,  signals  of  light  for  all 
future  ages  ! 

IV.  The  Age  of  the  Restoration. 

We  have  come  to  the  last  chapter  of  Romanticism,  to  the 
days  of  the  Holy  Alliance  and  of  Metternich,  to  the  time  of 
reaction  against  the  very  spirit  which  made  1813  possible, 
to  the  proscription  of  liberty,  to  the  blighting  of  national 
hopes. 

What  a singular  and  astounding  spectacle  1 Here  is  a 
people  just  recovered  from  centuries  of  political  misery, 
having  just  regained  the  full  sense  of  its  power,  just  risen 
with  one  accord  to  vindicate  its  honour  and  inde- 
pendence; and  the  very  moment  that  the  foreign  enemy 


49^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


is  vanquished,  the  very  moment  that  the  longed-for  oppor- 
tunity for  a thorough  national  reconstruction  has  come,  this 
same  people  again  falls  a victim  to  its  hereditary  lack  of 
common  consciousness,  it  allows  the  old  sectional  animosi- 
ties to  revive,  it  suffers  the  leaders  in  the  great  struggle  for 
freedom  and  unity  to  be  pushed  aside,  it  is  forced  back  into 
the  old  submission  to  princely  omnipotence.  Once  more  it 
is  left  to  the  dreamers  and  prophets  to  keep  the  ideal  of  na- 
tional greatness  alive.  Another  fifty  years  full  of  internal 
dissension  and  strife  must  pass,  before  the  fruits  of  the  com- 
mon struggle  against  Napoleon  can  be  reaped,  before  the 
nation,  at  least  politically,  is  welded  into  one;  and  even  then 
it  takes  the  iron  hand  of  a Bismarck  to  accomplish  this  task. 
Tantae  molls  erat  Germanam  condere  gentem, 

I.  The  Effect  of  the  Political  Reaction  Upon  Literature. 

The  attitude  of  the  governments  during  this  period  of  re- 
action, which  lasted  in  the  main  unbroken  from  1815  to  the 
Revolution  of  1848,  was  determined  by  the  one 

The  Metter-  desire  to  efface  as  far  as  possible  the  vestiges  of 
men  system,  . . 

the  great  upheaval  against  the  old  regime  which 

had  marked  the  beginning  of  the  century,  to  reassert  and 

to  maintain  the  obsolete  principle  of  the  divine  right  of 

kings.  It  was  characterized  by  the  retirement  from  public 

life  of  nearly  all  the  men  who  had  helped  to  bring  about  the 

reorganization  of  Prussia  ; by  the  impeachment  for  high 

treason  of  patriots  like  Arndt,  Jahn,  and  Gorres  (1819);  by 

the  wholesale  incarceration  of  harmless  university  students 

who,  like  Fritz  Reuter,  had  committed  the  heinous  crime  of 

wearing  the  German  colours  in  their  buttonholes^®®;  by  the 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the  beginnings  of  a more  general 
German  immigration  to  the  United  States  were  connected  with  this 
reactionary  persecution  of  the  universities;  and  that  two  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  among  this  first  generation  of  German  immigrants, 
Karl  Follen  and  Franz  Lieber,  became  connected,  the  former  with 
Harvard  University,  the  latter  with  Columbia  College.  A third,  Carl 
Postl  (Charles  Sealsfield),  became  the  Cooper  of  the  German  novel. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  497 


famous  decree  of  the  Federal  Diet  of  1835  putting  an 
interdict  upon  the  entire  literary  production,  future  as  well 
as  past,  of  Heine  and  the  other  members  of  Young  Ger- 
many by  the  dismissal  from  Gottingen  University  of  seven 
of  its  most  illustrious  professors  (among  them  the  brothers 
Grimm,  Dahlmann,  and  Gervinus)  because  they  had  pro- 
tested against  an  open  violation  of  constitutional  right  com- 
mitted by  the  king  of  Hanover  (1837). 

Public  opinion,  which  in  the  days  of  Stein  and  Fichte 
had  at  last  become  a motive  power  in  national  life,  was 
again  reduced  to  naught.  For  although  in  the  constitu- 
tional monarchies  of  South  Germany  at  least  -rj,  a>  ^ 

^ ^ Its  effect  on 

there  was  enjoyed  a certain  degree  of  parlia-  public  and 
mentary  freedom,  the  political  strength  repre-  literary  life, 
sented  by  these  miniature  states  was  so  little,  that  the  de- 
bates of  their  legislatures  had  seldom  more  than  academic 
value  and  hardly  ever  stirred  the  nation  as  a whole.  And 
while  Austria  and  Prussia  were  foremost  in  pursuing  a policy 
of  persistent  and  relentless  coercion,  the  educated  public  of 
Vienna  and  Berlin  was  engrossed  in  discussing  the  latest 
literary  scandal  or  the  advent  of  a new  ballet-dancer  on  the 
operatic  stage.  No  wonder  that  this  should  have  been  the 
time  in  which  renegades  of  freedom,  like  Friedrich  von 
Gentz,  Adam  Muller,  K.  L.  von  Haller,  were  praised  as  great 
political  philosophers;  in  which  the  ^ Fate  Tragedy’  with 
its  pallid  faces  and  meaningless  horrors,  with  its  hopeless 
gospel  of  submission  to  a blind  chance,  achieved  its  greatest 
theatrical  triumphs  in  which  the  hollow  phantasms  of  a 
spiritualistic  dreamer  like  Amadeus  Hoffmann  were  admired 
as  marvels  of  poetic  fiction. No  wonder  that  such  a 

Cf.  T,  S.  Perry,  Francis  Lieber.  H.  v.  Treitschke,  Deutsche  Gesch. 
im  ig.  Jhdt  III,  477  ff.  K.  Francke,  Fallen  and  the  Liberal  Move- 
ment in  Germany;  Papers  of  the  American  Hist.  Assoc.  V,  I,  p.  65  ff, 
A.  B.  Faust,  Charles  Sealsfield  (Baltimore,  1892). 

Cf.  Heine's  Sdmtl.  Werke  ed.  Elster  VII,  530  f.  545  f, 

Cf.  supra  p.  455.  Cf.  supra  p.  455. 


49^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


hopeless  pedant  as  Raupach  should  have  been  exalted  by 
this  age  as  a master  of  the  historical  drama  that  the  lyric 
dilettanteism  of  the  period  should  have  found  an  organ  in 
those  numberless  poetic  almanacs  and  keepsakes  embellished 
with  inane  steel-engravings,  the  thought  of  which  forced 
upon  the  lips  of  the  manly  Gervinus  the  words  of  Harry 
Hotspur 

I had  rather  be  a kitten  and  cry  mew. 

Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers. 

It  is  sad  to  see  how  even  the  best  minds  of  the  nation 
were  affected  by  this  universal  repression  of  public  activity, 
how  they  were  crippled  in  their  natural  development,  alien- 
ated from  their  own  day  and  their  own  country,  led  astray 
in  their  tastes  and  propensities,  discouraged  in  their  views 
of  life,  debarred  from  truly  constructive  achievements. 

Grillparzer,  the  greatest  dramatic  talent  since  Kleist,  a 
poet  whose  debut  in  Die  Ahnfrau  (1817)  showed  a wonder- 
ful power  of  instilling  human  blood  even  into  the 
Grillparzer,  lifeless  characters  of  the  ^Fate  Tragedy,’  whose 
Sappho  (1818)  seemed  to  bring  back  the  classic  days  of 
Goethe’s  Iphigenie^  whose  Golden  Fleece  (1821)  and  King 
Ottokar  (1825)  recalled  the  grand  dimensions  of  Schiller’s 
genius, — Grillparzer  was  doomed  to  spend  his  life  in  the 
stifling  atmosphere  of  Austrian  bureaucracy  and  to  see  his 
poetic  energies  wasted  under  the  humiliating  annoyances 
of  a petty  censorship  so  that  instead  of  developing  into 

Cf.  Heine’s  amusing  characterization  of  Raupach  in  D.  roman- 
iische  Schule  III,  4 {Werke  V,  340  ff.)  and  Ueber  die  Franzdsische 
Biihne  I (/.  c.  IV,  493  ff.)*  Raupach’s  Hohenstaufen  i830-’37. — That 
the  beginnings  of  the  German  historical  novel  (Hauff’s  Lichtenstein 
1826;  W.  Alexis's  Der  falsche  Waldemar  1842)  fall  in  this  same  time, 
is  well  known. 

Henry  IV,  III,  I.  Cf.  Gervinus  Gesck.  d,  d.  Dichtung  JV 
(1840),  introd. 

The  manuscript  of  Konig  Ottokars  Gliick  und  Ende  was  kept  for 
two  years  in  the  censor’s  office;  so  that  the  poet  had  given  it  up  as 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  499 


a distinct  type  of  his  own  he  ended  in  a half  classic,  half 
romantic  eclecticism. 

Riickert,  the  poet  of  the  Geharnischte  Sonette^  the  prophet 
of  a time  when  the  ravens  will  fly  no  more  around  Barba- 
rossa's  mountain,  when  the  old  hero  will  come  back  to  lead 
his  people  to  glory,^"^*  learned  through  bitter  per- 
sonal experience  that  this  day  of  national  great- 
ness was  again  removed  into  a far  distance.  His  own  gene- 
ration he  felt  destined  to  be  consumed  in  the  furnace  of 
purifying  trials 

So  lasse  sich  auch  dies  Geschlecht  nicht  dauchten 
Freiheit  zu  finden,  weil  es  bricht  die  Bande; 

Es  muss  verbrennen  in  dem  Lautrungsbrande, 

Das  reine  Licht  wird  erst  den  Enkeln  leuchten. 

And  he  himself  took  refuge  from  a hostile  world  in  the  quiet 
communion  with  nature,  his  family,  and  his  books.  Far  be 
it  from  us  to  underrate  the  wealth  of  noble  thought  and 
feeling  which  the  German  people  owes  to  the  author  of 
the  Liebesfrilhling  (1823)  and  the  Weisheit  des  Brahmanen 
(1836  ff.).  His  friend  Kopp  was  right  when  he  praised  him 
as  the  master  of  didactic  verse,  as  a poetic  interpreter  of 
pantheism,  when  he  found  in  the  best  of  his  poems  a magic 
transparency  and  depth  of  colour  such  as  is  spread  over  the 
solemn  landscape  of  the  East/’^  And  yet  who  can  help 

lost  when  by  a mere  accident  it  was  brought  to  light.  After  the  first 
performance  of  Ein  treuer  Diener  seines  Her rn  the  government  offered 
to  buy  the  manuscript  on  condition  that  the  drama  should  never  be 
published  or  performed  again.  Laube,  who  relates  these  astounding 
facts  (Grillparzer’s  Sdmtl,  Werke  I,  p.  xxv  f.)  pertinently  adds:  “ Man 
denke  sich  die  Empfindung  des  Dichters  [bei  solchen  Vorg^ngen]! 
Musste  nicht  der  Gedanke  in  ihm  herrschend  werden  : dein  ganzes 
Dichten  ist  wohl  ein  Verbrechen,  und  das  fernere  Trachten  nach  Stif- 
fen und  Compositionen  ist  die  mussigste,  unergiebigste  Th^tigkeit 
von  der  Welt?’^ — Cf.  J.  Volkelt,  Grillparzer  als  Dichter  des  TragL 
schen,  Bulthaupt^s  Dramaturgie  des  Sckauspiels  III.  Sauer’s  edition. 

Barbarossa  ; Gedichte  (Ausw.  d,  Verf.)  p,  104. 

Geharn.  Sonette,  Nachklang ; 1.  c.  164. 

Cf.  Fr.  Reuter,  F.  Riickert  u.  J.  Kopp  p,  17  ff. 


500  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


feeling  that  much  of  this  oriental  brilliancy  in  Riickert’s 
poems  is  laboured  and  artificial;  who  can  help  regretting 
that  this  sturdy  mind  should  have  been  forced  to  emigrate 
to  Persians  and  Hindoos  in  order  to  find  inspiration  for  his 
song;  who  can  escape  the  impression  that  there  lies  a shadow 
of  disappointment  and  resignation  over  all  his  poetry?”® 

Als  ich  Abschied  nahm,  als  ich  Abschied  nahm, 

War  die  Welt  mir  voll  so  sehr; 

Als  ich  wieder  kam,  als  ich  wieder  kam, 

War  alles  leer. 

And  how  is  it  with  most  of  the  other  eminent  writers 
of  the  time  ? with  Schopenhauer,  with  Platen,  Immermann, 
Borne,  Heine,  Lenau  ? Must  we  not  see  in  them  what  we 
see  in  Byron  and  the  youthful  Victor  Hugo,  sufferers  from 
a social  and  political  system  so  vicious  and  absurd  that  by 
its  aid  men  like  Metternich  and  Nicholas  I.  of  Russia  could 
succeed  in  ruling  Europe  for  more  than  thirty  years  ? They 
all  show  the  impress  of  a time  unable  to  satisfy  the  deepest 
cravings  of  the  heart,  unworthy  of  the  serious  efforts  of 
serious  men.  They  all  are  seekers  for  an  unknown  some- 
thing which  is  to  bring  relief  from  the  terrible  agony  of  in- 
tellectual suffocation.  Would  they  not  have  been  larger 
types  of  men — Schopenhauer  less  embittered,  Lenau  less 
morbid.  Borne  less  fanatic,  Heine  less  vacillating,,  Platen 
and  Immermann  less  morose  and  self-absorbed,  if  they 
could  have  seen  the  hopes  of  1813  fulfilled,  if  they  had 
not  been  deprived  of  the  noblest  privilege  of  freemen,  a 
successful  activity  in  the  service  of  one's  country  ? 

Schopenhauer,  a dialectic  genius  of  wonderful  consisten- 
cy and  power,  was  held  throughout  his  life  in  the  magic 
spell  of  a moral  quietism  which  stamps  him  as 
Schopenkauer,  ^ belated  Romanticist  of  the  Friedrich  Schlegel 
type.  His  keen  critical  sense  made  him  see  that  the  will 
and  not  the  intellect  is  the  primary  force  of  life,  that 


Aus  der  Jugendzeit ; L c.  330. 


THE  EE  A OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  SOI 


what  has  created  this  world  of  ours  with  all  its  diversified 
forms  of  existence,  with  all  its  manifold  institutions,  be- 
liefs, ideals,  is  in  the  last  analysis  a blind,  irresistible 
desire  for  functional  activity.  No  view  of  life  seems 
fuller  of  incentive  than  this,  more  capable  of  inspiring 
with  a firm  trust  in  the  gradual  evolution  of  the  world 
from  the  sensual  to  the  spiritual,  for  leading  to  active 
participation  in  the  work  of  human  progress.  Schopen- 
hauer, whose  youthful  impressions  were  formed  in  the 
gloomiest  days  of  Napoleonic  tyranny,  whose  manhood 
fell  in  a time  which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  take 
a part  in  the  affairs  of  his  country, was  led  by  it  to  the 
negation  of  all  progress.  The  desire  for  activity,  instead 
of  being  a source  of  satisfaction,  is  to  him,  as  it  was  to 
the  author  of  Lucinde^  the  root  of  all  human  suffering. 
He  purposely  closes  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  true 
reward  of  effort  consists,  not  in  the  attainment  of  its  ob- 
ject, but  in  the  effort  itself;  and  he  squanders  his  vast 
resources  of  reason  and  learning  in  the  futile  attempt  to 
demonstrate  that  the  goal  of  our  aspirations  is  unattain- 
able, that  there  is  no  happiness,  that  the  essence  of  life  is 
pain.  The  desire  is  in  its  very  nature  suffering:  its  fulfil- 
ment soon  begets  satiety:  the  goal  was  only  an  illusion:  at- 
tained, it  loses  its  charm:  under  a new  form  the  desire,  the 
need  reappears;  if  not,  there  results  desolation,  emptiness,, 
ennui,  the  struggle  against  which  is  fully  as  tormenting  as 
that  against  necessity”: — this  seems  to  him  the  monotonous 
and  dreary  refrain  of  all  existence. For  even  the  purest 
joys  of  life,  pure  because  they  afford  a temporary  relief  from 
the  ever-restless  desire,  the  joys  of  philosophic  insight  and 

It  is  a noteworthy  coincidence  that  the  first  edition  of  Die  Welt 
ah  Wille  u.  Vorstetlung  appeared  only  a few  months  before  the  so- 
called  Karlsbad  Resolutions  of  1819,  the  beginning  of  the  aggressive 
policy  of  the  German  governments  against  liberalism. 

Cf.  D.  Welt  ah  W.  u.  V.  IV,  57  ; Werke  ed.  Frauenstadt  II, 
370. 


502  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE. 

of  artistic  contemplation,  are  only  fleeting  dreams  from 
which  there  is  a terrible  awakening.  Nay,  these  very  joys 
mark  the  climax  of  life’s  tragedy;  for  they  imply  a degree 
of  intellectual  susceptibility  which  makes  those  able  to  feel 
them  the  chief  sufferers  from  cruel  reality.  And  thus  there 
remains  only  one  thing  to  be  hoped  for:  the  complete  and 
permanent  negation  of  the  will,  the  extinction  of  this  world 
of  hopeless  endeavour,  the  Nirvana,  the  Nothing.”* * 

It  would  of  course  be  folly  to  assume  that  in  a less  re- 
actionary age  a man  like  Lenau  would  have  been  a gay  child 
of  the  world.  Nor  are  we  utilitarian  enough  to 

Ii6U3iXl  • • 

Wish  that  he  had  been.  His  poetry  would  lose 
its  most  delicate  perfume  if  it  were  deprived  of  the  sweet 
melancholy  that  pervades  it.  Had  he  not  grieved  so  bitterly 
over  the  loss  of  his  childhood’s  faith,  had  he  not  pined  and 
craved  for  that  peace  of  the  soul  which  passeth  all  under- 
standing and  which  the  world  cannot  give,  we  should  not 
have  had  his  Schilfliedery  we  should  not  have  had  that 
wonderful  song  to  Night 

Weil  auf  mir,  du  dunkles  Auge, 

Uebe  deine  ganze  Macht, 

Ernste,  milde,  traumerische, 

Unergriindlich  siisse  Nachtl 
Nimm  mit  deinem  Zauberdunkel 
Diese  Welt  von  hinnen  mir, 

Dass  du  liber  meinem  Leben 
Einsam  schwebest  fiir  und  ftlr. 

What  we  mean  by  calling  Lenau  a victim  of  his  time 
is  this.  No  one  can  fail  to  see  that  with  all  his  pensiveness 
and  sadness  there  was  in  Lenau  a deep  instinct  for  all  that 

Cf.  D.  Welt  als  W.  u.  V,  IV,  71;  /.  r.  483  ff. 

*8*  Bitte;  Werke  ed.  Max  Koch  {DNL.  CLIV)  I,  49. 

Cf.  Grillparzer’s  poem  An  Nicolaus  Lenau ; SdmmtL  Werke  It 

no : 

Was  dich  zerbrach,  hat  Staaten  schon  zerbrochen: 

Dich  hob,  dich  trug  und  dich  verdarb  die  Zeit. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  503 

is  brave,  manly,  free,  bold.  In  his  veins  there  ran  the  fiery 
blood  of  the  Hungarian  nobleman;  his  heart  never  beat 
higher  than  when,  roaming  about  on  the  endless  plains  of 
his  native  land,  he  would  see  a troop  of  brown-faced  sons 
of  the  Pussta  gallop  past  him;  and  his  verse  is  never  more 
fervent  or  powerful  than  when  he  describes  those  magnifi- 
cent fellows  dancing  at  the  lonely  inn  in  the  midst  of  the 
prairie,  all  aglow  with  wine  and  joyfulness,  the  clatter  of 
their  spurs  mingling  with  the  intoxicating  strains  of  gypsy 
music.*®^  What  in  these  popular  scenes  from  his  native 
land  he  depicted  with  such  rapturous  passion,  a sturdy  en- 
joyment and  unreflective  grasp  of  the  moment,  a healthy, 
free,  masculine  activity,  was  denied  to  the  poet  himself. 
The  Austria  of  Metternich,  to  use  Lenau's  own  words,^®* 
“ had  no  room  for  deeds."'  And  thus  this  man  with  the  soul 
of  a hero  found  himself  condemned  to  the  role  of  a passive 
and  lonely  spectator  of  life.  Being  too  deep  a nature  to 
derive  satisfaction,  like  his  friend  Anastasius  Griin,  from 
the  display  of  liberal  oratory,  he  turned  his  back  upon  an 
age  which,  especially  since  the  crushing  failure  of  the  Polish 
rebellion  (1831),*®^  seemed  more  and  more  to  be  drifting  to- 
ward Russian  despotism.  For  a time  he  cherished  the  illu- 
sion that  in  the  great  republic  beyond  the  sea  he  might 
discover  a world  worthy  of  his  song. 

I am  going  to  send  my  imagination  to  school,”  he  writes, 

“ namely,  into  the  forests  of  North  America;  I shall  hear  the  roar 
of  the  Niagara  and  shall  sing  hymns  of  the  Niagara.  My  poetry 
lives  and  breathes  in  nature,  and  in  America  nature  is  grander 
and  more  beautiful  than  in  Europe.  An  immense  wealth  of  glo- 
rious sights  awaits  me  there,  an  abundance  of  divine  scenes, 
untouched  and  virginal  like  the  soil  of  the  primeval  forests.  I pro- 

Cf.  Die  Heideschenke  ; 1.  c.  ft.  Die  Werbung;  ib,  28. 

Letter  of  July  19,  1840;  Anton  X.  Schurz,  Lenau's  Leben  II,  36. 

Cf.  In  der  Schenke  and  Der  Polenfliichiling ; Werke  I,  22-26. 

Letter  of  March  16,  1832;  Schurz  /.  c.  I,  161  f. — What  Lenaa 
here  expresses  as  an  artistic  want  was  a few  years  later  realized  in  the 
gorgeous  descriptions  of  tropic  Scenery  by  Freiligrath  {Gedichte  1838). 


504  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


mise  myself  a wonderful  effect  from  this  upon  my  mind.  And 
perhaps  in  this  new  world  there  will  arise  in  me  a new  world  of 
poetry.  I really  feel  something  slumbering  in  me,  entirely  differ- 
ent from  what  I have  been  thus  far.  Perhaps  this  unknown 
something  will  be  awakened  by  the  thundering  call  of  the  Niagara. 
How  beautiful  that  very  name  is:  Niagara!  Niagara!  Niagara!” 

And  when  in  the  autumn  of  1832  he  did  indeed  set  sail  for 
America,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  on  a pilgrimage  to  the 
holy  land  of  freedom  : 

Fleug,  Schiff,  wie  Wolken  durch  die  Luft, 

Hin,  wo  die  GOtterflamme  brennt  ! 

Spill  mir  hinweg,  o Meer,  die  Kluft, 

Die  von  der  Freiheit  mich  noch  trennt  ! 

Du  neue  Welt,  du  freie  Welt, 

An  deren  bliitenreichem  Strand 
Die  Flut  der  Tyrannei  zerschellt, 

Ich  griisse  dich,  mein  Vaterland  ! 

A winter  spent  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pittsburg  was  suf- 
ficient to  change  this  youthful  enthusiasm  to  utter  disap- 
pointment and  contempt  for  a country  which  ‘‘  has  no 
wine  and  no  nightingales,'’  whose  national  beverage,  cider, 
rhymes  with  leider,”  and  which  to  its  citizens  has  no 
other  interest  than  that  of  a vast  insurance  company.” 
Even  in  primeval  nature,  from  the  sight  of  which  Lenau  had 
hoped  for  a new  inner  life,  he  found  nothing  but  gloom  and 
hopelessness:  an  ever-repeated  and  ever-monotonous  work 
of  destruction,  a ruthless  struggle  of  darkness  against  light, 
of  brutal  force  against  delicate  form,  one  grand  triumphal 

Abschied  {Lied  eines  auswandernden  Porttigiesen)\  Werke  I,  95. 

Cf.  letter  of  Oct.  16,  1832  ; Schurz  /.  c.  I,  198  f. : “Man  darf 
diese  Kerle  nur  im  Wirtshause  sehen,  um  sie  auf  immer  zu  hassen. 
Eine  lange  Tafel,  auf  beiden  Seiten  fiinfzig  Stiihle;  Speisen,  meist 
Fleisch,  bedecken  den  Tisch.  Da  erschallt  die  Fressglocke,  und 
hundert  Amerikaner  stiirzen  herein,  keiner  sieht  den  andern  an, 
keiner  spricht  ein  Wort,  jeder  stiirzt  auf  eine  Schiissel,  frisst  hastig 
hinein,  springt  dann  auf,  wirft  den  Stuhl  hin,  und  eilt  davon,  Dollars 
zu  verdienen.” 

Letter  of  March  6,  1833;  Schura  /,  c,  I,  208, 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  505 


scene  of  death.  And  thus  we  see  him  in  the  silent  forests 
of  the  Alleghanies/^'"  where  the  young  growth  “ in  vain  tries 
to  sprout  forth  through  mouldering  trunks,  the  withered 
fingers  of  death,”  bury  his  head  in  the  decaying  leaves  and 
stare  into  the  abyss  of  life’s  mystery. 

So  lag  ich  auf  dem  Grunde  schwer  beklommen, 

Dem  Tode  nah,  wie  nie  zuvor,  gekommen; 

Bis  ich  die  diirren  Blatter  rauschen  hSrte, 

Und  mich  der  Huftritt  meines  Rosses  stOrte. 

Es  schritt  heran  zu  mir,  als  wollt’  es  mahnen 
Mich  an  die  Dammerung  und  unsre  Bahnen; 

Ich  aber  rief:  “ Ist’s  auch  der  Miihe  wert, 

Noch  einmal  zu  beschreiten  dich,  mein  Pferd?'* 

Es  blickt  mich  an  mit  stiller  Lebenslust, 

Die  warmend  mir  gedrungen  in  die  Brust, 

Und  ruhebringend  wie  mit  Zaubermacht. 

Und  auf  den  tiefeinsamen  Waldeswegen 
Ritt  ich  getrost  der  nachsten  Nacht  entgegen, 

Und  der  geheimnisvollen  Todesnacht. 

Is  it  a wonder  that  this  man,  even  after  the  return  to  his 
home  and  his  friends,  should  in  vain  have  striven  for  a 
more  serene  and  hopeful  view  of  the  world  ? that  in  his 
Faust  (1836)  he  should  have  made  self-destruction  the  goal 
of  free  thought?  that  in  Savonarola  (1837)  he  should  have 
denounced  pantheism  and  modern  science  ? and  that  his 
mind  should  at  last  have  fallen  a prey  to  the  dark  powers 
which  he  saw  lurking  about  him  everywhere  ? Let  us  be 
thankful  that  Lenau  did  not  sink  into  the  night  of  living 
death,  before  having  created  the  masterwork  of  his  art,  be- 
fore  having  uttered  at  least  one  clear  and  penetrating  call 
for  spiritual  freedom,  at  least  one  word  of  unshaken  trust 
in  the  future  of  humanity.  At  the  end  of  Die  Albigenser 
(1842),  that  superb  gallery  of  frescoes  immortalizing  the 


188  Urwald ; Werke  I,  237  f. 

Lenau  said  himself  of  Die  Albigenser  : “ Sie  sind  das  Kiihnste, 
das  Grossartigste,  was  ich  gemacht  habe.  Es  sind  Fresken.''  Werke 

n,  350* 


5o6  social  forces  in  german  literature: 


nameless  sufferings  and  the  dauntless  heroism  of  the  noble 
race  whose  rebellion  against  mediaeval  hierarchy  is  among 
the  first  great  popular  risings  of  modern  Europe,  there  stand 
the  lines 


Das  Licht  vom  Himmel  lasst  sich  nicht  versprengen, 
Noch  lasst  der  Sonnenaufgang  sich  verhangen 
Mit  Purpurmanteln  oder  dunklen  Kutten. 

Den  Albigensern  folgen  die  Hussiten 
Und  zahlen  blutig  heim  was  jene  litten. 

Nach  Huss  und  Ziska  kommen  Luther,  Hutten, 

Die  dreissig  Jahre,  die  Cevennenstreiter, 

Die  StUrmer  der  Bastille,  und  so  weiter  ! 


It  would  be  hard  to  conceive  of  two  literary  types  more 

unlike  each  other  and  at  the  same  time  more  nearly  related 

than  Platen  and  Immermann.  Platen  by  birth 

Platen  and  instinct  an  aristocrat;  living  in  free  and 

Immermann  . . . ° . 

leisurely  devotion  to  his  art;  producing  nothing 

without  giving  it  the  stamp  of  perfection;  a contemplative 
spirit  feeling  truly  at  home  only  with  the  great  of  all  ages  ; 
a sculptor  of  words;  a connoisseur  of  the  sublime.  Immer- 
mann by  family  tradition  and  calling  belonging  to  the  Prus- 
sian bureaucracy;  compelled  to  divide  his  time  between 
literary  work  and  official  duties;  often  defective  in  his 
workmanship  and  never  entirely  sure  of  his  tools;  not  until 
after  many  tentative  efforts  finding  his  true  vocation  as  a 
delineator  of  every-day  life;  a thinker  rather  than  an  artist; 
an  observer  rather  than  a sympathizer.  Both  men  stub- 
bornly adhering  to  the  spirit  which  in  1815  made  them 
combatants  against  Napoleon;  both  lovers  of  civil  freedom 
and  national  dignity;  both  unable  to  come  to  terms  with  an 
age  which  had  no  room  for  their  ideals  of  life. 

What  a proud,  manly  figure  this  Platen  is  ! like  Riickert 
one  of  those  earnest,  sinewy  Franconians  who  preserve  the 
type  of  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  and  Diirer  to 
the  present  day.  He,  if  any  one,  seemed  chosen 
to  sing  of  the  great  affairs  of  his  country  and  nation;  he,  of 


Platen. 


190  II,  463  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  50/ 


all  men,  seemed  destined  to  be  for  his  time,  what  Schiller 
had  been  for  his,  a priest  of  human  dignity,  a herald  of  hu- 
man progress;  he,  of  all  poets,  seemed  able  to  lead  his  peo- 
ple to  that  harmonious  and  lawful  freedom  which  was  the 
goal  of  his  own  aspirations. 

O goldne  Freiheit,  der  auch  ich  entstamme, 

Die  du  den  Aether,  wie  ein  Zelt,  entfaltest, 

Die  du,  der  Schdnheit  und  des  Lebens  Amme, 

Die  Welt  ernahrst  und  immer  neu  gestaltest; 

Vestalin,  die  du  des  Gedankens  Flamme  — 

Als  ein  Symbol  der  Ewigkeit  verwaltest: 

Lass  uns  den  Blick  zu  dir  zu  beben  wagen. 

Lehr’  uns  die  Wahrheit,  die  du  kennst,  ertragen! 

It  was  the  tragedy  of  Platen's  life  that  he  was  unable  to 
inspire  his  contemporaries  with  the  ideal  expressed  in  these 
words  that  instead  of  being  borne  along  on  the  crest  of 
an  irresistible  popular  movement  for  constitutional  liberty, 
he  found  himself  cast  aside  by  the  current  of  retrogressive 
absolutism;  that  he  who  began  as  an  enthusiastic  spokesman 
of  a truly  national  art  should  have  ended  as  a voluntary 
exile,  disappointed  and  out  of  sympathy  even  with  the  best 
of  his  people. 

German  literature  has  reaped  from  Platen's  gloom  lyric 
poems  as  exquisite  and  noble  as  ever  came  from  souls  more 
joyful  and  serene/®**  No  criticism  of  his  sonnets  could  be 
more  unjust  than  the  often-heard  remark  that  behind  their 
faultless  form  there  beats  no  living  heart.  It  was  the  fer- 
vour of  deepest  feeling,  it  was  the  white  heat  of  passionate 

Die  verhdngnisvolle  Gabel  111 ^ Farab.;  Ges.  (1847)  IV,  45 . 

The  following  is  a chronological  list  of  the  more  important  of 
Platen’s  works.  Gaselen  1821.  Sonette  aus  Venedig  1825.  Die  ver- 
hdngnisvolle Gabel  1826.  Gedichte  1828.  Der  romantische  CEdipus 
1828.  Gedichte"^  1834.  Die  Abbasiden  1834  (finished  1830).  Platen 
died  in  Syracuse,  in  1835,  only  39  years  old.  A detailed  chronology 
in  the  Hempel  edition  of  his  works  III,  289  ff. — Cf.  Goedeke’s  sketch 
of  his  life  in  vol.  I of  the  Ges.  Werke.  J.  Marbach,  Platens  Stellung 
in  d.  d.  Nat  lit.;  Weimar.  Jahrb.  IV,  43  ff.  J.  L.  Hoffmann,  Pla- 
tens Stellung  zu  Lit.  u.  Leben  ; Niirnberger  Album  fur  iSsy^p.  154  ff. 


5o8  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


grief  which  melted  Platen’s  language  into  such  absolute  pu- 
rity and  liquidness  that  it  could  be  welded  into  the  most 
flawless  and  perfect  rhythm.  Those  magnificent  pictures  of 
grandeur  in  decay  through  which  Platen  has  surrounded 
the  name  of  Venice  with  a new  immortality, ^could  not  have 
been  created  by  a man  who  had  not  in  himself  experienced 
that  long,  eternal  sigh  ” which  he  saw  hovering  over  the 
lagoons  and  palaces  of  the  city  of  the  Adria.*®^  No  man 
whose  soul  had  not  been  seized  with  an  irresistible  desire  to 
flee  from  this  noisy  and  inane  world  into  the  desert  of  a 
consecrated  solitude,  could  have  written  that  sublime  in- 
terpretation of  Titian’s  John  the  Baptist 

Zur  Wiiste  fliehend  vor  dem  Menschenschwarme 
Steht  hier  ein  Jiingling,  um  zu  reinern  Spharen 
Durch  Einsamkeit  die  Seele  zu  verklaren, 

Die  hohe,  grossgestimmte,  gotteswarme. 

Voll  von  Begeisteriing,  von  heirgem  Harme, 

Erglanzt  sein  ew’ger,  ernster  Blick  von  Zahren; 

Nach  jenem,  den  Maria  soil  gebaren, 

Scheint  er  zu  deuten  mit  erhobnem  Arme. 

Wer  kann  sich  weg  von  diesem  Bilde  kehren 
Und  mdchte  nicht,  mit  briinstigen  Gebarden, 

Den  Gott  im  Busen  Tizian’s  verehren  ? 

O goldne  Zeit,  die  nicht  mehr  ist  im  Werden, 

Als  noch  die  Kunst  vermocht  die  Welt  zu  lehren, 

Und  nur  das  Schdne  heilig  war  auf  Erden! 

No  man  who  had  not  zealously  striven  for  harmony  with  his 
native  surroundings,  who  had  not  felt  the  bitter  pangs  of 
intellectual  isolation  and  homelessness,  could  have  written 
those  words  of  manly  resignation  — 

Es  sehnt  sich  ewig  dieser  Geist  ins  Weite 
Und  mdchte  flirder,  immer  fiirder  streben; 

Nie  kdnnt’  ich  lang  an  einer  Scholle  kleben, 

Und  hatt’  ein  Eden  ich  an  jeder  Seite. 


Sonelie  nr.  32  ; Werke  II,  ill. 
Sonette  nr.  36  ; 1.  c.  113. 

Sonette  nr.  ; 1.  c.  143. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  5^9 


Mein  Geist,  bewegt  von  innerlichem  Streite, 

Empfand  so  sehr  in  diesem  kurzen  Leben, 

Wie  leicht  es  ist,  die  Heimat  aufzugeben, 

Allein  wie  schwer,  zu  finden  eine  zweite. 

Doch  wer  aus  voller  Seele  hasst  das  Schlechte, 

Auch  aus  der  Heimat  wird  es  ihn  verjagen, 

Wenn  dort  verehrt  es  wird  vom  Volk  der  Knechte. 

Weit  kliiger  ist’s,  dem  Vaterland  entsagen, 

Als  unter  einem  kindischen  Geschlechte 
Das  Joch  des  blinden  Pdbelhasses  tragen^ 

It  may  be  that  the  peculiarity  of  Platen’s  genius  was 
brought  out  rather  than  disguised  by  the  attitude  of  defi- 
ance against  his  own  generation  forced  upon  him  through 
the  political  reaction  of  his  time.  What  must  for  ever  be 
considered  a national  misfortune,  what  for  ever  will  be  an 
irreparable  loss  both  for  the  political  and  the  literary  history 
of  modern  Europe,  is  that  this  born  defender  of  freedom 
never  found  an  opportunity  to  fight  the  battle  of  freemen; 
that  he  never  had  an  opponent  worthy  of  himself/®®  That 
there  was  in  him  a truly  Aristophanic  power  of  invective  is 
proven  by  his  satirical  plays  Die  verhdngnisvolle  Gabel  (1826) 
and  Der  romantische  Oedipus  (1829).  He  who  enters  the 
fantastic  world  of  these  comedies  without  pedantic  consider- 
ations of  theatrical  canons  will  be  unable  to  resist  the  breath 
of  righteous  indignation  at  every  sort  of  literary  sham  which 
pervades  them  ; he  will  not  fail  to  rejoice  at  the  crushing 
blows  showered  upon  the  hollow  perversities  of  the  ‘ Fate 
Tragedy  ’ and  other  forms  of  Romantic  wilfulness.  But 
all  the  keener  will  be  the  regret  that  it  was  never  given  to 
Platen  to  extend  his  powerful  satire  to  the  political  field; 
that — to  use  his  own  words  — ‘Hnstead  of  giving  a picture 

His  disgraceful  wrangle  with  Heine,  actuated  as  it  was  on  both 
sides  by  nothing  but  personal  spite,  does  not  deserve  the  name  of  po- 
lemics. That  Platen’s  attacks  against  Immermann  proceeded  from 
an  entirely  mistaken  estimate  of  Immermann,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

D.  verb.  Gabel  IV,  Parab,;  Werke  IV,  60. 


510  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


of  the  world’’  he  had  to  resign  himself  to  giving  “a  picture  of 
the  picture  of  the  world.”  And  who  will  condemn  the  poet 
that  he  at  last  abandoned  all  faith  in  his  people  and  turned 
with  bitter  abuse  against  those  whom  he  had  loved  so  well  ? 
This  is  what  he  wrote  when  the  bloodhounds  of  reactionary 
morality,  the  literary  police,  interfered  with  his  Folenlieder^ 
in  which  he  had  been  sacrilegious  enough  to  speak  for 
Polish  freedom  and  against  the  Czar  of  Russia  — 

So  muss  ich  denn  gezwungen  schweigen, 

Und  so  verlasst  mich  jener  Wahn, 

Mich  fiirder  einem  Volk  zu  zeigen 
Das  wandelt  eine  solche  Bahn. 

Doch  gieb,  o Dichter,  dich  zufrieden, 

Es  biisst  die  Welt  nur  wenig  ein, 

Du  weisst  es  ISngst,  man  kann  hienieden 
Nichts  Schlechtres  als  ein  Deutscher  sein. 

It  is  Immermann  who  has  most  clearly  defined  and  most 
severely  condemned  the  literary  character  of 
Immermami.  whole  age  by  calling  it  an  age  of  the  after- 

born.” 

“ Of  misfortune  there  has  been  enough  at  all  times.  The  curse 
of  the  present  generation  is  to  be  miserable  without  any  particular 
misfortune.  A desolate  wavering  and  vacillating,  a laughable 
mock  earnestness  and  abstraction,  a groping  one  knows  not  whi- 
ther, a fear  of  horrors  which  are  all  the  more  uncanny  since 
they  have  no  shape!  We  are,  to  express  the  whole  misery  in  a 
word,  late  comers,  weighed  down  by  the  burden  which  is  the  lot 
of  the  heirs  and  the  after-born.  The  great  movement  in  the 
realm  of  spirit  which  our  fathers  started  from  their  modest  huts 
has  flooded  us  with  a wealth  of  treasures  which  now  are  spread 
out  on  all  counters.  Without  special  effort  even  mediocrity  may 
acquire  at  least  the  small  change  of  every  art  and  science.  But 
it  is  with  borrowed  ideas  as  it  is  with  borrowed  money:  he  who 


Folenliedert  Epilog;  Werke  Hempel  I,  115.  Cf.  the  powerful 
Eamus  omnis  execrata  civitas  ; ib.  102. 

Cf.  Die  Epigonen  II,  10;  Immermann's  Werke  Hempel  V,  123!. 
— A vivid  account  of  the  effects  of  this  intellectual  condition  on  German 
university  life  in  F.  Reuter,  Die  Erlanger  Burs^henschaft  p.  201  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  $11 

recklessly  trades  with  the  capital  of  others  doubly  impoverishes 
himself.” 

There  is  certainly  a good  deal  of  truth  in  all  this,  not  only 
for  Immermann’s  time,  but  for  ours  as  well;  but  can  it  be 
said  that  Immermann  himself  had  grappled  with  the  pro- 
blems of  life  in  such  a manner  as  to  make  him  a safe  guide 
out  of  the  confusion  of  this  age?  Was  he  not  himself  largely 
feeding  on  the  thought  of  a past  generation  ? Was  he  not 
himself  groping  rather  than  seeing  his  way  ? 

Undoubtedly,  we  feel  something  of  a Faust  atmosphere 
in  his  Merlin  (1832),  the  tragedy  of  that  mysterious  son  of 
Satan  and  the  saintly  virgin  who  succumbs  in  the  attempt  to 
unite  the  two  poles  of  human  existence,  the  spirit  and  the 
senses.  Yet  what  in  Goethe’s  drama  is  embodied  in  concrete 
and  living  beings  is  here  dissolved  into  grand  but  shadowy 
allegories.  And  if  the  keynote  of  Faust  is  hope  and  en- 
deavour, the  keynote  of  Merlin  is  discord  and  destruction. 
^^Merlin”  says  Immermann  himself,^®®  was  to  be  the  tra- 
gedy of  negation.  The  divine  in  us  when  it  enters  the 
realm  of  appearances  is  refracted,  disintegrated,  by  con- 
tact with  it.  Even  the  religious  feeling  is  subject  to  this 
law.  Only  within  certain  bounds  is  it  kept  from  becoming 
a caricature.  I doubt  whether  there  is  a single  saint  who 
entirely  avoided  being  ridiculous.  Reflections  like  these, 
only  sublimated,  spiritualized,  I tried  to  express  in  Merlin, 
The  son  of  Satan  and  the  virgin,  ecstatic  with  devout  rap- 
ture, on  his  way  to  God,  falls  a prey  to  the  most  abject 
madness.” 

Again,  no  one  can  fail  to  see  a reflex  of  Wilhelm  Meister  in 
Immermann’s  Die  Epigonen  (1836).^®^  In  both  novels  there 
are  depicted  important  phases  of  social  development:  in 
Wilhelm  Meister  the  rise  of  the  third  estate  to  the  intellectual 
and  social  level  of  the  hereditary  aristocracy,  inDieEpigonen 
Diisseldorfer  Anfdnge  4;  Werke  XX,  157  f. 

Cf.  Fr.  Schultess,  Zfitgeschichte  u.  Zeitgenossen  in  Immermanns 
Epigonen;  Preuss.  Jahrb.  LXXIII,  212  ff. 


SI2  SOCIAL  FOjRCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

the  decomposition  of  the  entire  old  order  caused  by  the 
rise  of  modern  industrialism.  But  there  is  a remarkable  con- 
trast in  the  attitude  of  the  two  authors  toward  their  themes. 
Goethe  sees  in  the  transition  from  an  aristocracy  of  birth 
to  an  aristocracy  of  intellect  and  character  a step  forward 
in  civilization;  and  the  hero  of  his  novel  typifies  this  pro- 
gress in  his  own  career.  Immermann  considers  modern 
industrialism  as  an  unmitigated  evil,  as  the  forerunner  of 
social  anarchy;  and  his  hero  stands  for  reaction  instead  of 
progress.  The  words  spoken  by  him  at  the  end  of  the 
novel,  when  through  the  acquisition  of  a vast  estate  he  sees 
him-self  at  the  head  of  a manufacturing  community,  are 
typical  of  the  drift  of  the  whole  book.  First  of  all,’*  he 
says,^®^  the  factories  are  to  be  done  away  with,  and  the 
fields  to  be  restored  to  agriculture.  These  establishments 
for  the  artificial  gratification  of  artificial  wants  appear  to 
me  downright  ruinous  and  bad.  The  soil  belongs  to  the 
plough,  to  sunshine  and  rain,  which  unfold  the  seed-corn, 
and  to  the  simple  industrious  hand.  With  stormlike  ra- 
pidity the  present  age  is  moving  on  toward  a dry  mechan- 
ism. We  cannot  check  its  course;  but  we  are  certainly  not 
to  blame  if  we  hedge  off  a little  green  spot  for  ourselves  and 
ours  and  defend  this  island  as  long  as  possible  against  the 
tide  of  the  surging  industrial  waves.” 

Even  in  his  last  and  ripest  novel,  in  Munchhausen  (1838- 
39),  Immermann  manifests  this  same  spirit  of  isolation,  of 
opposition  to  the  prevailing  current  of  his  own  age.  Who 
can  help  admiring  the  high  sense  of  justice  and  truth  which 
here  induces  Immermann  to  arraign  the  follies  and  insin- 
cerities of  the  whole  Restoration  epoch  before  the  tribunal 
of  his  merciless  satire  ? Who  would  not  sympathize  with 
his  scorn  at  the  renewal  of  obsolete  feudal  institutions,  with 
his  flings  at  the  somnambulism  of  the  modern  advocates  of 
a mediaeval  Christianity,  at  the  shallowness  of  a purely  in- 


Die  Epigonen  IX,  16  ; Werke  VII,  257. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION, 


tellectual  culture,  at  the  arrogance  of  a short-sighted  bureau- 
cracy ? And  who  would  not  all  the  more  gratefully  acknow- 
ledge the  beauty  of  that  picture  of  undefiled  and  sturdy  po- 
pular life  which  forms  such  an  impressive  contrast  to  this 
array  of  social  sham  and  patchwork:  the  picture  of  that 
grand  old  Westphalian  peasant,  who,  untouched  by  modern 
sophistry,  unaffected  by  the  soulless  principles  of  a formal 
jurisprudence,  guards  the  sovereignty  of  traditional  law  with 
the  rigid  dignity  of  an  Old  Testament  patriarch  ? The  mys- 
terious sword  of  Carolus  Magnus  by  the  authority  of  which 
this  Hofschidze  pronounces  the  verdicts  of  the  court  of  free- 
holders and  neighbours,  is  a fitting  symbol  of  the  sanctity  in 
which  he  holds  his  office  as  an  organ  of  popular  self-govern- 
ment. And  when  this  man  succumbs  to  a tragic  fate,  when 
his  sword  is  stolen,  when  the  secrets  of  the  peasant  court 
are  divulged,  when  the  court  is  swept  away  by  the  levelling 
machinery  of  the  modern  state,  we  yet  feel  the  truth  of  the 
words  uttered  by  a fair-minded  looker-on  Let  the 

judge’s  seat  crumble  to  pieces,  let  the  sword  be  stolen,  let 
them  call  out  the  secret  usages  from  all  the  roofs.  Have 
you  not  found  in  yourself  and  in  your  friends  the  watch- 
word of  independence?  This  is  the  watchword  by  which 
you  recognise  your  own  and  which  cannot  be  taken  from 

Munchhausen  VIII,  5 ; Werke  IV,  121,  f. — The  same  spirit 
which  lives  in  these  sturdy  Westphalian  characters  of  Immermann's 
we  feel  as  a creative  force  in  the  lyric  poems  of  Annette  von  Droste- 
Hiilshoff  (d.  1848),  the  author  of  Die  Schlacht  im  Lorner  Bruchy  a true 
daughter  of  the  **red  soil  : pure  and  strong  ; stubborn  and  gentle  ; 
of  a soaring  idealism,  yet  full  of  tenderness  for  the  humble  and  the 
lowly  ; passionately  clinging  to  ancient  traditions,  yet  open  to  every 
true  feeling.  Cf.  the  biography  by  W.  Kreiten  in  vol.  I of  her  Ges. 
Werke.  H.  Hiilfer,  Annette  v.  Droste-H.  u.  ihre  Werke.  Also  Breuss, 
Jahrb.  LXVI,  439  ff.  LXIX,  340  ff. — Compared  with  these  abso- 
lutely genuine  representations  of  Westphalian  yeomanry  and  the 
equally  truthful  sketches  of  Swiss  popular  life  by  Jeremias  Gotthelf 
{un  der  Knecht  1841),  the  graceful  Schwarzwdlder  Dorfgeschichten  l)y 
Auerbach  (1843)  appear  somewhat  affected. 


514  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


you.  You  have  planted  the  conviction  that  .nan’s  place  is 
among  his  nearest,  the  plain,  true,  simple  folk;  not  with 
strangers  who  will  force  upon  him  the  stamp  of  artificiality 
and  distortedness.  And  this  conviction  has  no  need  of  the 
stone  seats  under  the  old  linden  trees  in  order  to  find  good 
law.  Your  freedom,  your  manliness,  your  firm  iron  nature, 
you  yourself,  you  sublime  old  man, — this  is  the  true  sword 
of  Carolus  Magnus,  and  the  hand  of  theft  cannot  reach  out 
for  this.”  All  this  as  well  as  the  story  of  a deep  and  pa- 
thetic love  connected  with  the  fate  of  the  Hofschulze  has 
the  genuine  ring  of  golden  poetry.  Yet  here  again,  was  it 
necessary  to  confine  most  that  is  healthy  and  true  to  a 
sphere  uninvaded  by  modern  civilization,  and  to  represent 
nearly  all  that  is  specifically  modern  as  corrupt  and  diseased  ? 
Is  this  a wise  attitude  for  a man  to  take  who  wishes  to  lead 
his  age  to  better  things  ? Do  we  not  here  once  more  see 
the  narrowing  influence  exerted  upon  Immermann  by  the 
political  repression  of  his  time  which  debarred  him  from  a 
more  hopeful  view  of  the  future,  and  which  with  all  his 
liberalism  and  broadmindedness  made  him  in  a certain  way 
a reactionist  himself  ? 

The  same  age  which  thus  prevented  Immermann  and 
Platen  from  truly  constructive  achievements  brought  out 
whatever  there  was  negative  and  undermining  in  Borne  and 
Heine.  We  cannot  sympathize  with  the  violent 
Heine  declamations  of  contemporary  Anti-Semitism 

against  what  is  called  the  inroad  of  Judaism  into 
German  culture,  an  inroad  which  we  are  told  began  with 
these  two  men.^"^  We  are  unwilling  to  join  in  the  defama- 

Cf.  H.  V.  Treitschke,  D.  Gesch,  im  ig.  Jhdt  III,  701  ff.  IV,  419 
ff.  It  is  a mistake  to  think  of  Wolfgang  Menzel,  the  intellectual 
father  of  modern  German  Anti-Semitism,  as  an  irreconcilable  enemy 
of  Borne  and  Heine.  His  estimate  of  both  men,  in  vol.  IV  of  his  Die 
deutsche  Litteratur  (1836),  belongs  to  the  best  that  has  been  said 
about  either.  A most  judicious  account  of  Borne  and  Heine  in  J. 
Proelss,  D,  junge  Deutschland p.  81  ff.  124  ff.  Cf.  the  first  edition  of 
GG.  § 325,  41.  42.  A detailed  synopsis  of  the  opinions  of  French 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  515 


cion  of  writers  whose  services  as  forerunners  of  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1848  should  be  sufficient  to  secure  them  an  honour- 
able place  in  German  history.  We  respect  in  Borne  a journal- 
ist of  republican  integrity  and  fearlessness,  a patriot  imbued 
with  the  conviction  that  literature  is  a public  trust.  We 
admire  in  Heine  a poetic  genius  in  whom  there  vibrated  the 
accords  as  well  as  the  discords  of  a whole  century.  If  there 
is  to  be  blame — and  alas!  there  is  ample  ground  for  it — let 
them  be  blamed  first  who  stigmatized  these  Jews  as  Jews; 
who  slandered  their  race  and  vilified  their  ideals;  who  cast 
suspicion  upon  their  motives  and  slurs  upon  their  achieve- 
ments; who  forced  them  into  unworthy  compromises  and 
stratagems,  or  else  into  a sterile  opposition  to  the  whole  ex- 
isting order;  who  in  a word,  by  disfranchising  them,  made 
them  either  scoffers  or  fanatics  or  both. 

There  are  few  passages  in  Heine  which  reveal  in  so  touch- 
ing a manner  his  native  sympathies,  which  demonstrate  so 
conclusively  how  humiliating  must  have  been  for  him  the 
adoption  of  the  Christian  faith  necessitated  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  his  social  position,  as  the  one,  in  his  essay  on 
Shakspere,  where  he  relates  of  a performance  of  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  in  Drury  Lane^®®: 

“There  stood  behind  me  in  the  box  a beautiful  pale  British 
woman,  who  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act  wept  impetuously  and 
more  than  once  exclaimed:  ‘ The  poor  man  is  wronged!  ’ It  was  a 
face  of  the  noblest  Greek  cut,  and  her  eyes  were  large  and  black. 


critics  on  Heine  in  L.  P.  Betz,  Heine  in  Frankreich.  Matthew 
Arnold’s  article  on  Heine,  which  first  appeared  in  the  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine  for  Aug.  1863,  was  reprinted  in  the  Essays  in  Criiicis?n, 

Shakespeare' s Mddchen  u.  Frauen ; SdmtL  Werke  ed.  Elster  V, 
448  f.  Cf.  the  vision  in  Atta  Troll  ig.  20  {Werke  II,  394  ff.)  where, 
among  the  Greek  goddess  Diana,  the  Celtic  fairy  Abunde,  and  the 
Jewess  Herodias,  Heine  gives  preference  to  Herodias  ; 

Denn  ich  iiebe  dich  am  meisten  ! 

Mehr  als  jene  Griechengdttin, 

Mehr  als  jene  Fee  des  Nordens, 

Lieb*  ich  dich,  du  tor  - * 


5i6  social  forces  in  german  literature. 


I have  never  been  able  to  forget  them,  those  large  black  eyes, 
which  wept  forShylock!  And  when  I think  of  those  tears,  I must 
rank  the  Merchant  of  Venice  with  the  tragedies,  although  the 
framework  of  the  play  is  adorned  with  the  gayest  masks,  satyrs, 
and  amorettes,  and  although  the  poet  meant  it  as  a comedy. 
Shakspere  probably  intended  to  amuse  the  crowd  with  the  rep- 
resentation of  a hateful,  fabulous  monster  who  craves  for  blood, 
and  instead  loses  his  daughter  and  his  ducats  and  is  moreover 
held  up  to  ridicule.  But  the  genius  of  the  poet,  the  world-spirit 
living  in  him,  is  more  powerful  than  his  private  will;  and  thus 
it  happened  that,  in  spite  of  the  glaring  caricature,  Shakspere 
vindicated  in  Shylock  an  unfortunate  sect  which  Providence  for 
inscrutable  reasons  has  burdened  with  the  hatred  of  the  rabble 
both  high  and  low  and  which  has  not  always  been  able  to  reward 
this  hatred  with  loving-kindness.” 

And  Borne,  the  child  of  the  .Frankfurt  Ghetto^  who  well 
remembered  the  time  when  no  Jew  was  allowed  on  a side- 
walk in  the  public  park;  when  on  every  Sunday  afternoon 
the  gate  of  the  Jewish  quarter  was  closed  and  guarded  by  a 
sentry;  Borne,  who  lived  to  see  that  the  very  triumph  of  the 
national  cause  in  1815  brought  to  the  Jews  of  Frankfurt  the 
abolition  of  the  civil  rights  and  liberties  acquired  by  them 
during  the  Napoleonic  invasion, — is  Borne  to  be  condemned 
because  he  did  not  forget  his  origin  ? Would  it  not  be  more 
gracious  to  admire  the  exaltedness  of  soul  which  enabled 
him  to  remember  his  origin  and  yet  to  hope  for  the  future 
of  Germany  ? Indeed  he  must  be  deaf  to  all  human  voices 
except  his  own  who  does  not  hear  the  ring  of  true  humanity 
in  the  answer  given  in  one  of  his  Letters  from  Paris  (1830- 
1833)^°®  to  the  continual  aspersions  against  his  nationality. 

“ Poor  German  people!  Living  as  they  do  on  the  lowest  floor, 
oppressed  by  the  seven  stories  of  the  higher  classes,  they  feel 
relieved  if  they  can  talk  of  people  who  live  still  lower  than  they 
themselves,  in  the  cellar.  Not  being  Jews  comforts  them  for  not 
being  Privy-Councillors.  No,  having  been  born  a Jew  has  never 
embittered  me  against  the  Germans,  has  never  blinded  my  reason. 

206  Brief e aus  Paris  nr.  74  , Ludw.  Borne’s  Ges.  Sckr,  (1862)  X, 
242  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  S^7 


I should  indeed  not  be  worthy  to  enjoy  the  light  of  the  sun  if  I 
repaid  God’s  mercy  in  letting  me  be  at  the  same  time  a German 
and  a Jew  with  base  grumbling, — on  account  of  jeerings  which  I 
always  disdained,  of  sufferings  which  I have  long  forgotten.  No, 
I know  how  to  value  the  undeserved  good  fortune  of  being  a 
German  and  at  the  same  time  a Jew,  of  being  allowed  to  strive 
for  all  the  virtues  of  the  Germans  without  sharing  their  defects. 
Yes,  because  I was  born  a slave  I love  freedom  better  than  you. 
Yes,  because  I was  born  to  no  fatherland  I crave  for  a fatherland 
more  eagerly  than  you;  and  because  the  place  of  my  birth  was 
not  larger  than  the  Ghetto^  and  what  was  beyond  the  closed  gate 
was  to  me  a foreign  country,  now  not  even  a city  suffices  me,  not 
a district,  not  a province;  only  the  whole  vast  fatherland  suffices 
me,  as  far  as  its  language  reaches.  And  if  I had  the  power,  I 
would  not  tolerate  it  that  one  German  tribe  should  be  separated 
from  another  by  a lane  as  broad  as  my  hand.  If  I had  the  power, 
I would  not  tolerate  it  that  a single  German  word  coming  from 
German  lips  should  sound  to  my  ears  from  beyond  the  frontier. 
And  because  I have  ceased  to  be  a slave  of  my  townsfolk,  I will 
no  longer  be  the  slave  of  a prince;  wholly  free  I must  be.  I pray 
you,  do  not  look  down  upon  my  Jews.  If  you  only  were  like 
them,  you  would  be  better.  If  they  were  only  as  many  as  you, 
they  would  be  better  than  you.  You  are  thirty  millions  of  Ger- 
mans, and  you  count  only  for  thirty  in  the  world.  Give  us  thirty 
millions  of  Jews  and  the  world  would  not  count  beside  them. 
You  have  taken  away  the  air  from  the  Jews;  but  they  have  been 
kept  thereby  from  rotting.  You  have  strewn  the  salt  of  hatred 
into  their  heart;  but  their  heart  has  been  kept  fresh  thereby.  You 
have  locked  them  the  whole  long  winter  in  a deep  cellar  and 
have  stopped  up  the  cellar-door  with  dirt,  but  you,  freely  exposed 
as  you  were  to  the  air,  are  nearly  frozen.  When  spring  comes, 
we  shall  see  who  sprouts  first,  the  Jew  or  the  Christian.” 

One  may  fully  sympathize  with  all  this,  and  yet  feel  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  that  neither  Heine  nor  Borne  was 
in  a true  sense  an  intellectual  leader,  that  neither  Heine  nor 
Borne  has  added  to  the  store  of  modern  culture  a single 
original  thought  or  a single  poetic  symbol  of  the  highest 
life.  Their  strength  was  consumed  in  negation;  their  mis- 
sion was  fulfilled  in  fighting  the  principles  of  the  Holy 
Alliance,  in  helping  to  break  down  the  absolutism  of  Met- 


5i8  social  forces  in  german  literature. 

ternich,  in  making  room  again  for  the  ideas  which  had  led 
to  the  national  revival  of  1813. 

Borne's  strength  lay  in  his  passionate,  nay,  fanatic  love  of 
democracy.  In  all  his  writings  there  is  nothing  more  im- 
pressive than  what  he  says  about  the  two  great 

Borne’s  demo-  dangers  which  threaten  modern  society:  pluto- 
cratic feeling.  ....  r 

cracy  and  militarism.  No  one  who  has  observed 

intelligently  recent  developments  in  the  internal  affairs  of 
imperial  Germany  can  fail  to  see  the  truth  of  this  remarka- 
ble prophecy — “In  Prussia  they  are  going  to  introduce 
uniforms  for  all  government  officials.  By  this  means  the 
government  will  be  entirely  separated  from  the  people,  pa- 
triotism will  be  changed  into  blind  discipline,  a standing 
army  will  be  created  out  of  the  sitting  army  of  clerks.  The 
judges  will  employ  rescripts  and  verdicts  as  gunpowder,  the 
associate  judges  will  have  to  stand  sentry,  the  registrars  of 
the  court  will  do  patrol  duty  at  night.  The  ministry  will 
be  a headquarters  and  every  office  a guard-room.''  And  in 
these  days  of  Panama  disclosures  and  whiskey  trusts  it 
would  be  well  to  remember  that  only  a year  after  the  tri- 
umph of  the  French  bourgeoisie  in  the  July  Revolution, 
Borne  predicted  the  downfall  of  this  bourgeoisie  as  a ne- 
cessary consequence  of  its  sordid  greed.^®®  “ Woe  to  the 
statesmen  who  are  too  dull  or  too  bad,  not  to  see  that  war 
should  be  waged,  not  against  the  poor,  but  against  poverty. 
Not  the  property  of  the  rich,  only  their  monopolies  are  at- 
tacked by  the  people;  but  if  these  monopolies  are  sheltered 
by  property,  how  can  the  people  win  the  equality  which  is 
its  due  otherwise  than  by  storming  against  property  ? What 
shortsightedness  to  believe  that  in  those  countries  where 
the  clergy  and  nobility  have  lost  their  privileges  eternal 
peace  has  been  assured!  On  the  contrary,  they  are  nearer 
the  most  portentous  of  revolutions  than  the  countries 
where  there  is  no  freedom  yet.  In  the  latter,  the  fourth 


201  Briefe  aus  Paris  nr,  74;  /.  c.  254. 


208  Ib,  nr.  60  ; I,  c.  f. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  519 

estate  is  debarred  through  its  neighbour,  the  bourgeoisie, 
from  a view  of  the  higher,  privileged  classes.  It  therefore 
does  not  miss  equality.  But  where  the  bourgeoisie  has 
acquired  equality  with  the  higher  classes,  the  fourth  estate 
sees  inequality  by  its  side,  it  becomes  aware  of  its  own 
wretchedness,  and  sooner  or  later  the  war  of  the  poor 
against  the  rich  must  break  out.” 

It  is  only  in  turning  from  these  astute  observations  of 
existing  evils  to  Borne’s  attempts  at  positive  Blinking  that 
we  become  aware  of  how  completely  his  intel- 
lectual energies  were  exhausted  by  the  incessant  intellec- 
® , tual  sterility, 

and  fruitless  struggle  against  the  political  reac- 
tion of  his  time.  When  we  hear  him  replying  to  the  well- 
founded  charge  of  superficial  brilliancy^"®:  You  call  my 

writings  fireworks  ? Let  them  be  fireworks,  if  only  they 
make  you  see  that  you  are  living  in  darkness”;  when  we 
hear  that  he  looks  forward  to  Goethe’s  death  as  to  the 
birthday  of  German  liberty  when  we  read  again  and 
again  that  he  expects  to  solve  all  the  problems  of  social 
life  by  the  one  abstract  formula:  equality;  when  we  find 
him  in  all  seriousness  proposing  to  divide  the  money  spent 
on  the  library  of  Gottingen  University  among  an  indefinite 
number  of  village  libraries,  or  again — as  he  expresses  it  — 
to  divide  thirty  professors  into  thirty  thousand  schoolmas- 
ters,— then  we  cannot  help  seeing  in  Borne  a striking  ex- 
ample of  the  fundamental  sterility  of  thought  which  is  the 
curse  of  all  fanaticism. 

Of  all  the  accusations  raised  against  Heine,  none  is  more 

unjust  than  the  oft-repeated  assertion  that  he  had  no  heart 

for  Germany.  If  anywhere  there  is  a note  of  ^ , 

^ ...  Heme’s  feel- 

deep-felt  sadness  and  longing  in  Heine’s  verse,  ingforQer- 

it  is  in  those  simple  lines  on  Germany  in  which, 

though  they  were  written  in  a country  more  friendly  to  his 


Briefe  aus  Paris  nr.  74;  /.  c.  247. 
s>®  Ib.  nr.  16  ; /.  <r.  VIII,  117.  Ib.  nr.  103;  /.  c.  XII,  44. 


520  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


genius  than  his  native  land,  there  is  hidden  a whole  life  of 
homelessness  and  isolation/^^ 

Ich  hatte  einst  ein  schones  Vaterland. 

Der  Eichenbaum 

Wuchs  dort  so  hoch,  die  Veilchen  nickten  sanft. 

Es  war  ein  Traum. 

Das  kiisste  mich  auf  deutsch  und  sprach  auf  deutsch 

(Man  glaubt  es  kaum 

Wie  gut  es  klang)  das  Wort:  ‘ Ich  liebe  dich!* 

Es  war  ein  Traum. 

And  what  writer  ever  expressed  more  clearly  and  more 
touchingly  what  he  felt  and  hoped  for  his  people  than  Hei- 
ne when,  at  the  end  of  the  Pictures  of  Travel  (1826-31), 
he  compares  himself  to  Kunz  von  Rosen,  the  court  fool  of 
emperor  Maximilian.  The  emperor  has  been  captured  by 
his  enemies  ; his  knights  and  courtiers  have  deserted  him  ; 
he  is  sitting  in  his  lonely  prison.  Suddenly  the  door  opens, 
a man  wrapped  in  a mantle  enters,  and  when  he  throws  back 
his  mantle,  the  emperor  recognises  his  faithful  court  fool. 

“O  German  fatherland,  beloved  German  people,  I am  thy 
Kunz  von  Rosen.  The  man  whose  real  office  was  merry-making, 
who  should  have  only  amused  thee  in  prosperous  days,  now  en- 
ters thy  dungeon  in  a time  of  distress  ; here,  under  my  mantle  I 
bring  thee  thy  beautiful  sceptre  and  crown, — dost  thou  not  recog- 
nise me,  my  emperor  ? If  I cannot  free  thee,  I will  at  least  com- 
fort thee,  and  thou  shalt  have  some  one  with  thee  who  will  talk 
with  thee  about  thy  hardships  and  give  thee  courage  and  love 
thee,  and  whose  best  wit  and  best  blood  is  at  thy  service.  For 
thou,  my  people,  art  the  true  emperor,  thy  will  is  sovereign  and 
much  more  truly  legitimate  than  the  purple  ‘ Tel  est  notre  plaisir  ’ 
which  surrounds  itself  with  a claim  of  divine  right,  without  any 
other  authority  than  the  babblings  of  shaven  jugglers;  thy  will, 
my  people,  is  the  only  source  of  power.  Though  now  thou  liest 

In  der  Fremde  ; Sdmtl.  Werke  I,  263.  The  pathos  of  these  lines 
becomes  doubly  apparent  when  one  compares  them  with  the  unreflec- 
tive  joyousness  of  patriotic  feeling  revealed  in  such  men  as  Hoffmann 
von  Fallersleben  (‘  Deutschland,  Deutschland  tiber  Alles,*  1841)  or 
Freiligrath. 

Reisebilder  IV  ; r.  Ill,  504. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  521 

prostrate  and  in  fetters,  thy  good  right  will  triumph  in  the  end, 
the  day  of  delivery  is  near,  a new  time  begins — my  emperor,  the 
night  is  gone,  out  yonder  glows  the  morning  red.’’ 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  these  words  reflect  what- 
ever there  was  in  Heine  of  true  inspiration.  Heine  had  not 
in  vain  sat  at  the  feet  of  Hegel,  he  was  not  in 

vain  an  ardent  admirer  of  Goethe.  There  hover-  ^is  panthe- 
ism. 

ed  before  him,  at  least  in  his  best  years,  an  ideal 
of  society  not  unlike  the  ideal  which  had  inspired  the  great 
writers  of  the  days  of  Weimar  and  Jena.  The  much-reviled 
‘‘  emancipation  of  the  flesh,*'  the  social  programme  which 
united  Heine  on  the  one  hand  with  the  Saint-Simonians,  on 
the  other  with  Gutzkow,  Laube,  and  the  rest  of  ‘‘Young 
Germany,**  was  after  all  only  a new  form  of  that  ideal  of 
free  humanity  toward  which  all  German  culture  from  Luther 
to  Goethe  had  tended.  And  it  is  one  of  Heine’s  lasting 
achievements  to  have  brought  out,  in  those  much-abused 
and  much -appropriated  essays  0?i  the  History  of  Ger7nan 
Religion  and  Philosophy  (1834),  this  inner  continuity  of  the 
intellectual  development  of  modern  Europe.  Such  charac- 
terizations as  that  of  Luther’s  ‘ Ein  feste  Burg*  as  the  Mar- 
seillaise  of  the  Reformation,^^*  of  Luther  himself  as  the  first 
complete  individual  of  modern  history,^^®  of  Lessing  as  the 
prophet  who  pointed  from  the  second  Testament  forward 
to  a third,^^®  of  Kant  as  the  executioner  of  deism, of  Goe- 
the as  the  Spinoza  of  poetry,^^® — to  refer  only  to  a few  among 
the  many  striking  passages  of  this  book, — reveal  a man  who 
was  fully  conscious  of  his  own  intellectual  ancestry,  and 
fully  aware  of  the  mission  bequeathed  by  it  to  himself:  the 
mission  of  winning  the  world  over  to  pantheism,  “ the  hid- 
den religion  of  Germany.” 

“ The  aim  of  modern  life  is  the  rehabilitation  of  matter,  its 
moral  recognition,  its  religious  sanctification,  its  reconciliation 

Zur  Gesch.  d.  Rel.  u,  Philos,  in  DeutschL  I ; L c.  IV,  200. 

Ib.  190  f.  216  243.  217  249. 

2*®  lb.  272.  219  Jb.  222.  224. 


522  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


with  the  spirit.  God  is  identical  with  the  world.  He  manifests 
himself  in  the  plants  which  without  consciousness  lead  a cosmic- 
magnetic  life.  He  manifests  himself  in  the  animals,  which  in 
their  sensual  dream-life  feel  a more  or  less  dumb  existence.  But 
most  gloriously  he  manifests  himself  in  man,  who  both  feels  and 
thinks,  who  perceives  the  difference  between  himself  and  nature 
and  who  bears  in  his  own  reason  the  ideas  which  are  revealed  to 
him  in  the  world  of  appearances.  In  man  God  reaches  self-con- 
sciousness, and  through  man  he  reveals  this  self-consciousness; 
not  in  and  through  the  individual  man,  but  in  and  through  the 
whole  of  mankind  ; so  that,  while  the  individual  man  conceives 
and  represents  only  a part  of  the  God-universe,  all  men  together 
conceive  and  represent  the  whole  God-universe  in  idea  and  reality. 
God,  therefore,  is  the  true  hero  of  the  world’s  history.  The  latter 
is  his  continual  thinking,  speaking,  doing;  and  of  all  mankind  it 
can  truly  be  said  that  it  is  an  incarnation  of  God. — It  is  a mistake 
to  believe  that  this  religion  of  pantheism  will  lead  men  to  indif- 
ference. On  the  contrary,  the  consciousness  of  his  divinity  will 
inspire  man  to  manifest  himself  as  divine  ; and  thus  will  be 
brought  on  an  age  when  the  true  exploits  of  true  heroism  will 
magnify  this  earth.  We  battle  not  for  the  human  rights  but  for 
the  divine  rights  of  man.” 

Could  the  innermost  creed  of  the  poets  and  thinkers  who 
had  created  the  new  Germany,  could  the  life-work  of  a 
Lessing,  Herder,  Kant,  Schiller,  Fichte,  Schleiermacher, 
Hegel,  Goethe,  be  expressed  more  eloquently  or  more 
plainly  ? Could  a Walt  Whitman  have  spoken  more  enthu- 
siastically of  the  tasks  and  the  triumphs  which  await  the 
human  race  after  its  final  emancipation  from  a belief  which 
exalts  one  part  of  man  only  to  degrade  the  other,  and  which 
degrades  the  world  of  appearances  in  order  to  exalt  an 
invisible  and  extramundane  God  ? 

It  is  just  at  this  point  that  we  see  the  fatal  defect,  the 

essential  barrenness  of  Heine’s  life.  This  man  who  could 

speak  so  fervently  of  the  ideals  of  existence  never 

^ , His  surrender 

placed  his  genius  in  the  service  of  these  ideals,  to  the  reac- 
His  whole  career  is  poisoned  by  a fundamental 
falsehood.  Having  been  born  a Jew,  and  living  in  the  era 
of  the  Restoration,  he  is  forced  through  his  social  and  politi- 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  523 


cal  surroundings  into  an  act  of  treason  against  himself.  He 
abjures  the  faith  of  his  ancestors  and  adopts  the  outward 
form  of  a creed  which  he  inwardly  despises.  Thus  he  enters 
the  literary  arena  with  the  secret  stigma  of  desertion  upon 
him.  And  when  we  come  to  cast  the  balance  of  his  life,  we 
find  that,  with  all  his  noble  sympathies  and  aspirations,  he  was 
at  the  end — or  shall  we  not  rather  say:  from  the  beginning  ? 
— religiously,  politically,  and  even  artistically  a renegade. 

Who  would  refuse  human  compassion  to  his  last  years  ? 
Who  would  not  marvel  at  the  brilliant  shafts  of  wit,  imagi- 
nation, and  feeling  which  flashed  forth  from  this  poor  suf- 
ferer as  he  lay  in  one  long  death-agony  in  his  “ mattress- 
grave  of  the  Rue  d ’Amsterdam  ? Who  would  doubt  for 
one  moment  the  sincerity  of  the  religious  recantation  to 
which  under  these  circumstances  he  felt  himself  compelled  ? 
There  is  something  infinitely  naive  and  pathetic  in  that 
often  retold  tale  of  his,  how  on  a May  day  of  1848,  the  day 
on  which  he  went  out  for  the  last  time,  he  took  leave  of  the 
‘‘sweet  idols”  which  he  had  worshipped  in  the  days  of  hap- 
piness.^^® “ Hardly  could  I drag  myself  as  far  as  the  Louvre, 
and  I almost  broke  down  when  I entered  the  sublime  hall 
where  the  blessed  goddess  of  beauty,  our  Dear  Lady  of  Milo, 
stands  on  her  pedestal.  For  a long  time  I lay  at  her  feet  and 
wept  so  bitterly  that  a stone  would  have  taken  pity  on  me. 
And  the  goddess  looked  compassionately  down  upon  me, 
but  at  the  same  time  disconsolately  as  though  she  wanted 
to  say:  Dost  thou  not  see  that  I have  no  arms  and  therefore 
cannot  help  thee  ? ” Here  we  see  clearly  what  it  was  that 
drove  Heine  back  into  the  fold  of  a theistic  creed.  It  was 
the  helplessness  of  a man  incapable  of  living  up  to  his  ideals 
under  severe  trial,  it  was  the  defenselessness  of  a man  who  had 

Nackwort  zum  Romanzero ; 1.  c.  I,  487.  The  proof  for  Heine’s 
religious  recantation  is  contained  chiefly  in  three  documents  written 
between  1851  and  54:  (i)  The  Nachwort  just  mentioned;  (2)  the  in- 
troduction to  the  second  edition  of  Zur  Gesck.  d.  Rel.  u.  Phil,  (/.  c, 
IV,  154  ff.);  (3)  the  Gestdndnisse  (/.  c.  VI,  15  ff.). 


524  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


never  trained  his  powers  in  self-denying  devotion  to  a com- 
mon cause.  And  we  cannot  be  surprised  that  even  behind 
his  last  conversion  there  lurks  that  sterile  Mephistophelean 
smile  which  robs  even  the  finest  feeling  of  its  moral  worth. 

“Yes,”  he  says,^‘^^  “ I did  return  to  God  like  the  prodigal  son, 
after  having  for  a long  time  herded  swine  with  the  Hegelians. 
A heavenly  homesickness  came  over  me  and  drove  me  on  through 
forests  and  glens,  over  the  most  giddy  mountain-paths  of  dialec- 
tics. On  my  way  I found  the  God  of  the  pantheists,  but  I could 
make  no  use  of  him.  This  poor,  dreamy  being  is  interwoven 
and  entangled  with  the  world,  imprisoned  in  it,  as  it  were,  and 
yawns  at  you  indolently  and  powerlessly.  To  have  a will  one 
must  be  a person,  to  manifest  one’s  will  one  must  have  elbow- 
room.  If  you  want  a God  who  can  help — and  that  after  all  is 
the  main  thing, — you  must  accept  his  personality,  his  extramun- 
daneity,  and  all  his  holy  attributes.  If  you  accept  this,  then  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  your  own  continuance  after  death,  is 
given  to  you  into  the  bargain,  as  it  were,  like  the  marrow-bone 
which  the  butcher  pushes  into  his  customer’s  basket,  if  he  is 
pleased  with  him.  Such  a nice  marrow-bone  is  called  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  French  cuisine  la  rejouissance^  and  you  make  from  it 
an  excellent  bouillon  which  is  most  refreshing  and  stimulating  for 
the  poor  sick  people.  That  I did  not  refuse  such  a rejouissance^ 
but  on  the  contrary  took  to  it  with  great  relish,  every  feeling 
soul  will  understand.” 

We  can  think  of  no  better  way  of  refuting  such  blas- 
phemous godliness  as  this  than  to  quote  a word  of  the 
master  of  whom  Heine  was,  it  is  not  too  harsh 
to  say  it,  an  unworthy  disciple.  Less  than  a 
month  before  his  death,  looking  back  upon  a 
life  full  of  restless  striving,  full  of  pain  and  joy,  Goethe 
wrote  I have  always  sought  to  understand  as  fully 

as  possible  what  can  be  known,  understood,  applied;  and 
in  this  I have  succeeded  in  such  a manner  as  to  please 
myself  and  others  even.  Herein  I have  now  been  brought 

Nachivort  zum  Romanzero  ; 1.  c.  I,  485. 

Letter  to  Sulpiz  Boisseree,  Febr.  25,  1832  ; S.  B.,  Briefwechsel 
mit  Goethe y p.  591,  * 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  52$ 

to  a limit;  so  that  I begin  to  believe  where  others  despair: 
namely  those  who,  because  they  cannot  reach  beyond  the 
limits  set  to  man,  consider  the  highest  achievements  of 
mankind  as  naught.  Thus  we  are  driven  from  the  indi- 
vidual to  the  whole,  and  from  the  whole  to  the  individual, 
whether  we  will  or  not/'  Goethe,  in  other  words,  remained 
faithful  to  the  modern  ideal  of  humanity,  because  his  very 
doubt  was  at  bottom  constructive  and  reverent;  Heine  de- 
nounced this  ideal,  because  his  very  belief  was  at  bottom 
negative  and  frivolous. 

Politically,  Heine  never  stooped  to  so  sweeping  a dis- 
avowal of  his  own  convictions.  From  that  enthusiastic 
apotheosis  of  freedom  in  the  Reisebildery^^"^  in  which  he 
claims  for  his  coffin  not  a laurel  wreath  but  a sword — for 
I was  a brave  soldier  in  the  war  of  hum.an  emancipation  " — 
down  to  one  of  the  last  poems  of  the  Romanzero  (1851),^’^  in 
which  he  calls  himself  an  enfant  perdu  of  the  liberal  army,  he 
never  ceased  to  insist  on  his  republican  sympathies.  And 
when  the  biting  reflections  upon  the  political  reaction  in  Prus- 
sia, to  which  he  gave  vent  in  Deutschland  ein  Wintermdrchen 
(1844),^^^  were  misconstrued  into  a malicious  attack  upon 
the  land  of  his  birth,  he  was  fully  justified  in  drawing  a 
distinction  between  the  old  official  Germany,  the  moul- 
dering land  of  the  Philistines,  which  has,  however,  produced 
no  Goliath,  not  a single  great  man,”  and  the  real  Germany, 
the  great,  mysterious,  one  might  say  anonymous  Germany 
of  the  German  people,  the  sleeping  sovereign  with  whose 
sceptre  and  crown  the  apes  are  playing.”  And  yet  it  must 
be  said  that  here  too  he  entirely  lacked  that  stability,  seri- 
ousness, and  trust  in  the  radical  goodness  of  human  nature 
which  alone  give  moral  dignity  to  democratic  convictions. 
A man  who  abandoned  what  he  called  atheism,  because  he 

Reisebilder  III,  29-31;  /.  III,  273  ff. 

Romanzero  II,  20;  /.  c.  I,  430. 

Cf.  especially  c.  3.  18;  /.  c,  II,  434  ff.  468  ff. 

SdmtL  W.  IV,  155. 


526  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

saw  that  atheism  began  to  stink  of  cheese,  brandy,  and 
tobacco'’;  a man  who  said^^®  that  ‘‘he  would  wash  his 
hands  if  the  sovereign  people  should  honour  him  with  a 
handshake”;  who  could  make  fun  of  popular  distress  by 
saying “We  must  see  to  it  that  the  sovereign  people 
always  has  something  to  eat;  as  soon  as  Its  Majesty  is  well 
fed  and  filled,  it  will  smile  at  you  most  graciously,  just  like 
the  other  Majesties,” — such  a man  cannot  expect  to  be 
classed  with  the  true  friends  of  the  people. 

And  finally,  as  to  his  art,  nothing  could  be  more  signifi- 
cant for  Heine’s  character  than  that  this  greatest  lyric  genius 
since  Goethe  should  have  produced  hardly  a single  poem 
which  fathoms  the  depths  of  life.  This  master  in  the  art 
of  poetic  hypnotizing  hardly  ever  sets  free  our  higher  self. 
This  brilliant  painter  of  nature,  who  with  a few  careless 
touches  charms  a whole  landscape  before  our  eyes,  who  is  as 
much  at  home  on  the  lonely  downs  of  the  North  Sea  as  in 
the  mountain  wilderness  of  the  Pyrenees,^®®  hardly  ever  al- 
lows us  a glimpse  into  the  mysterious  brooding  and  moving 
of  nature’s  creative  forces.  This  accomplished  connoisseur 
of  the  human  heart,  this  expert  of  human  desires,  hardly 
ever  reveals  the  secret  of  true  love.  This  philosophic 
apostle  of  a complete  and  harmonious  humanity  revels  as  a 
poet  in  exposing  his  own  unharmonious,  fickle,  scoffing^ 
petulant  self.  And  one  of  the  most  perfect  artistic  achievc“ 
ments  of  this  enthusiast  for  popular  freedom  is  a glorifica- 
tion of  military  bravado,  an  apotheosis  of  the  man  of  Aus- 
terlitz  and  Moscow.^®^ 

Is  it  too  much  to  say  that  of  all  the  writers  of  his  time 
Heine  is  the  saddest  example  of  the  intellectual  degenera- 


Gestdndnisse  ; /.  c.  VI,  41. 

Ib.  42. 

Ib.  43.  Cf.  G.  Brandes,  Das  junge  Deutschland p.  131  ff. 

Cf.  Die  Nordsee  (/.  c.  I,  163  ff.)  and  Atta  Troll  c.  13.  15.  16.  17 
20.  (/.  c.  II,  381  ff.). 

Die  Grenadier e ; 1.  c.  I,  39. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  $2/ 

tion  wrought  by  the  political  principles  of  the  age  of  the 
Restoration  ? 

2.  The  Victory  of  Liberalism. 

We  have  seen  how  the  era  of  great  constructive  ideas 
which  led  to  the  national  uprising  of  1813  was  followed, 
after  1815,  by  an  epoch  of  political  and  intellectual  reaction. 
We  observed  some  of  the  effects  of  this  reaction  upon  litera- 
ture: the  absence  of  truly  leading  men,  the  revival  of  a 
capricious  and  morbid  subjectivism,  the  renewal  of  the 
Romantic  flight  into  the  mysterious  and  the  distant,  the 
prevalence  of  merely  negative  views  of  public  life.  But 
we  have  not  yet  completed  our  review  of  the  Restoration 
epoch.  We  have  not  yet  considered  the  last  achieve- 
ments of  the  two  men  who,  although  essentially  belonging 
to  a former  age,  must  nevertheless  be  thought  of  as  the  true 
intellectual  leaders  of  this  age  also:  Goethe  and  Hegel. 

It  would  be  a futile  undertaking  to  palliate  the  fact  that  the 
most  glorious  epoch  of  modern  German  history,  the  period  of 
inner  regeneration  preceding  the  overthrow  of  the 
Napoleonic  yoke,  was  at  the  same  time  the  least  i806  to 
inspiring  epoch  in  the  life  of  Germany's  greatest 
poet.  Here,  as  in  all  questions  touching  the  relation  of  a great 
man  to  his  time,  one  should  be  careful  to  refrain  from  per- 
sonal incriminations.  It  was  probably  impossible  for  Goethe, 
the  man  who  harboured  within  himself  a world  of  culture 
destined  to  be  the  spiritual  home  of  future  generations, — it 
was  probably  impossible  for  him  to  feel  as  deeply  as  his 
contemporaries  did  the  death-agony  of  the  old  social  order. 
And  yet  there  is  something  uncanny,  something  one  might 
say  inhuman,  in  the  quiet  and  composure  with  which  Goethe 
lives  through  the  succession  of  national  catastrophes  from 
1806  to  1815.  While  the  country  is  quivering  under  the 
blows  of  Jena  and  Tilsit,  Goethe  calmly  pursues  his  studies 
in  biology  and  the  theory  of  colours.  While  Fichte  and 
Heinrich  von  Kleist  wring  from  themselves  works  of  oratory 


528  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  poetic  inspiration  in  which  there  vibrates  the  deepest 
passion  of  a people  imbued  with  the  conviction  that  the 
moment  for  a final  supreme  effort  of  self-preservation  has 
come,  Goethe  is  held  in  the  spell  of  Pandora  (1807)  and 
The  Elective  Affinities  (1809),  themes  utterly  devoid  of  na- 
tional motives.  And  when  at  last  the  fulfilment  of  time 
has  indeed  come,  when  the  people  rise,  when  the  foreign 
conqueror  is  put  to  flight,  Goethe  is  shocked  rather  than 
stirred:  the  touching  ovation  given  to  him  by  the  Liitzow 
volunteers,  which  was  narrated  in  another  connection,^” 
took  place  while  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Bohemian  sum- 
mer resorts,  trying  to  escape  from  what  seemed  to  him  a 
rude  overturning  of  peaceful  culture.  Indeed,  there  is  a 
deep  pathos  in  the  fact  that  the  principal  character  of  the 
play  with  which  Goethe  in  1815  celebrated  the  final  triumph 
of  the  German  cause  should  have  been  a dim  figure  of 
Greek  antiquity  — Epimenides,  the  legendary  sage  who 
awakens  from  a sleep  of  long  years  to  find  himself  alone 
among  a people  whose  battles  he  has  not  fought,  whose 
pangs  he  has  not  shared.^” 

With  all  this,  even  Pandora  and  The  Elective  Affinities 
are  a part  of  the  national  regeneration  that  led  to  1813. 

Nowhere  has  Goethe  more  emphatically  con- 
Pandora.  demned  the  reckless  individualism  of  early  Ro- 
manticism than  in  these  two  works.  In  Pandora  he  seems 
to  retract  the  revolutionary  aspirations  of  his  own  youth. 
In  his  youth  he  had  magnified  the  Titans  as  rebels  against 
the  autocracy  of  Olympus;  now  he  magnifies  the  Olympians 
as  the  upholders  of  divine  order.  The  Titans  represent 
what  is  partial  and  one-sided, — Prometheus  the  active, 


Cf.  supra  p.  491  f. 

2^3  Epimenides  Erwachen  23;  Werke  XI,  i,  p.  196  : 

Doch  scham'  ich  mich  der  RuhesLunden, 

Mit  euch  zu  leiden  war  Gewinn; 

Denn  fiir  den  Schmerz  den  ihr  empfunden, 

Seid  ihr  auch  grosser  als  ich  bin. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  5^9 

Epimetheus  the  meditative  phase  of  life;  only  through  an 
amalgamation  of  both  can  the  true  life  be  obtained.  Pan- 
dora, the  child  of  the  Gods,  preserves  this  highest  life  in 
her  magic  vessel.  Through  her  the  conflicts  of  the  Titans 
are  appeased;  through  her  a reign  of  beauty,  goodness,  and 
joy  is  initiated.  And  the  human  offspring  of  the  Titans 
are  unitedjn  the  worship  of  universal  harmony  — 

Was  zu  wiinschen  ist,  ihr  unten  fiihlt  es; 

Was  zu  geben  sei,  die  wissen’s  droben. 

Gross  beginnet  ihr  Titanen,  aber  leiteh 
Zu  dem  ewig  Guten,  ewig  Schdnen, 

Ist  der  Gotter  Werk;  die  lasst  gewa,hren! 

While  Pandora  thus,  in  allegorical  visions  of  rare  trans- 
lucency  and  wealth  of  colour,  reveals  human  effort  lifted  into 
the  sphere  of  the  divine,  there  rises  before  us  in  The  Elective 
Affinities  a tragic  conflict  between  elemental  in-  ^ahlver- 
stinct  and  the  moral  law.  In  Gottfried^s  Tristan  wandtschaf- 
we  saw  the  conventions  of  chivalric  society  give 
way  before  a resistless  passion;  here  we  see  modern  cul- 
ture, developed  to  the  highest  intellectual  and  aesthetic 
refinement,  undermined  by  moral  indifference.  Over  The 
Elective  Affinities  as  over  Tristaji  there  hangs  a sultry,  sti- 
fling atmosphere.  No  tasks  of  public  import;  no  questions 
of  national  honour  or  greatness;  the  whole  of  life  a mere 
pastime.  No  wonder  that  Eduard  like  Tristan  becomes 
the  prey  of  an  all-absorbing  desire;  no  wonder  that  a blind 
fatalism  governs  most  of  the  characters  in  the  modern  as 
well  as  in  the  mediaeval  romance.  And  yet  what  a differ- 
ence in  the  ultimate  significance  of  the  two  creations;  what 
a difference,  above  all,  in  the  attitude  of  the  two  principal 
heroines  ! In  the  whole  career  of  Isolt  after  she  has  par- 
taken of  the  magic  love-potion  there  is  not  a single  act  of 
moral  freedom.  Passion  has  truly  enchanted  her;  she  has 
lost  all  sense  of  responsibility;  she  has  become  incapable  of 


Last  verses  of  Pandora  ; Werke  X,  382. 


530  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

distinguishing  between  good  and  evil.  Ottilie,  on  the  con- 
trary, through  the  very  instinct  which  brings  her  into  conflict 
with  the  law  of  society,  is  rendered  mistress  of  herself;  and 
what  threatens  to  lead  to  utter  moral  ruin  ends  by  leading  to 
moral  victory.  Ottilie  is  one  of  those  sensitive  natuo*es  to 
whom  all  knowledge  comes  by  intuition,  none  through  re- 
flection; who  act  only  under  the  stress  of  an  irresistible 
impulse.  Sure  of  her  own  feelings  for  Eduard,  assured 
moreover  that  Eduard  and  Charlotte  desire  nothing  more 
fervently  than  a divorce,  she  does  not  question  the  legiti- 
macy of  her  feelings.  Thus  she  lives  on,  in  her  dreamy, 
plantlike  fashion,  welcoming  every  opportunity  to  meet  her 
beloved,  turning  to  him  as  to  the  light  of  day,  unconscious 
of  the  catastrophe  that  awaits  them  both.  But  all  of  a sud- 
den she  comes  to  see  that  she  has  unwittingly  sinned,  and 
henceforth  her  only  thought  is  expiation. I have  trans- 
gressed my  sphere,  I have  broken  my  law,  I shudder  at  my- 
self, I shall  never  be  hiso  In  a terrible  way  God  has  opened 
my  eyes  and  made  me  see  my  crime.  I shall  atone  for  it,  I 
shall  atone  for  it.*’  She  renounces  the  world,  she  is  going 
to  devote  herself  to  the  instruction  of  the  young;  for  who 
is  better  fitted  for  guiding  the  young  than  he  who  through 
misfortune  has  come  to  know  the  joy  of  self-possession  ? 
And  when  she  is  thwarted  even  in  this  through  Eduard’s 
mad  design  to  win  her  at  any  cost,  there  is  nothing  left  her 
but  to  die.  She  dies  like  a saint,  by  the  mere  resolve  not  to 
live,  passing  over  gradually  and  placidly  into  the  sphere  of 
the  spiritual. 

No  period  of  Goethe’s  life  is  fuller  of  moral  incentive, 
richer  in  spiritual  visions,  fraught  with  greater  national  sig- 
G-oetiie’s  old  nificance  than  his  last  seventeen  years,  from  the 
end  of  the  Napoleonic  wars  to  1832.  The  resto- 
ration of  peace,  the  hope  for  a new  era  of  national  greatness 
bring  back  to  the  septuagenarian  all  the  joyfulness  and  vigour 


236  \Yahlverw.  II,  14;  Werke  XV,  223,  Cf.  A Scholl,  Goethe  p.  398  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  531 


of  his  youth;  and  at  the  same  time  there  rests  on  him  the 
halo  of  deeper  wisdom  and  broader  sympathies  acquired  in 
the  trials  of  his  manhood.  Whatever  there  was  of  earthy 
dross  in  his  nature  seems  now  to  have  been  cast  aside.  His 
whole  being  seems  illumined,  and  he  seems  to  illumine  what* * 
ever  comes  within  his  ken.  Whether  it  be  the  development 
of  his  own  genius  as  portrayed  in  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit 
(i8ii  ff.);  or  the  manifold  correlations  of  physical  condi- 
tions and  national  culture  as  brought  to  light  in  the  Italian 
Journey  (1816-17);  whether  it  be  the  analysis — in  Kunst 
und  Altertum  (1816-28),  in  his  correspondence  with  Sulpiz 
Boisseree  or  Zelter — of  some  mediaeval  cathedral,  of  some 
painting  by  the  Van  Eycks  or  Mantegna;  or  the  tranquil 
contemplation — in  the  Maxunen  und  Reflexionen^  in  his 
conversations  with  Eckermann,  Riemer,  and  others — of 
some  natural  phenomenon,  some  literary  masterpiece,  some 
phase  of  human  conduct;  be  it  the  poetic  confession  of 
faith,  in  the  Westdstlicher  Divan  (1814-19),  of  a man  who 
to  the  very  end  of  his  life  drinks  in  the  joys  of  existence,  in 
whom  the  sunset,  the  clouds,  the  winds,  the  glance  of  a 
beautiful  eye,  the  sound  of  a gentle  voice,  call  forth  melo- 
dies of  deepest  power,  and  who  at  the  same  time  feels  that 
to  be  a man  is  to  be  a warrior,**  that  ‘‘  to  die  and  to  be 
reborn  **  is  the  great  task  of  life: — everywhere  we  see  the 
same  conception  of  the  universe  as  a grand  living  whole,  the 

Edited  under  the  title  Spruche  in  Prosa  by  Loeper;  Werke  XIX» 
Cf.  Bailey  Saunders,  Goeihds  Maxims  and  Reflections. 

Cf.  Westostl.  Divan  XII,  4;  Werke  IV,  211: 

Nicht  so  vieles  Federlesen  ! 

Lass  mich  immer  nur  herein  : 

Denn  ich  bin  ein  Mensch  gewesen 
Und  das  heisst  ein  Kampfer  sein. 

*38/^.  I,  18;  /.  r.  27: 

Und  so  lang  du  das  nicht  hast, 

Dieses  : Stirb  und  werde  ! 

Bist  du  nur  ein  triiber  Cast 
Auf  der  dunklen  Erde. 


532  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


same  loving  tenderness  for  all  that  draws  breath,  the  same 
divine  trust  in  the  ever-ascending  and  ever-widening  path 
of  human  perfection. 

Was  kann  der  Mensch  im  Leben  mehr  gewinnen, 

Als  dass  sich  Gott-Natur  ihm  offenbare, 

Wie  sie  das  Feste  lasst  zu  Geist  zerrinnen, 

Wie  sie  das  Geisterzeugte  fest  bewahre! 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind,  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  a joy- 
ous pantheism,  in  the  firm  belief  in  the  power  of  the  human 
mind  to  transform  matter,  in  the  divinatory  anticipation  of 
social  conditions  which  shall  be  perfect  embodiments  of  a 
perfect  manhood,  that  Goethe  returned  to  the  two  great 
themes  of  his  early  career.  In  Wilhelm  MeisteFs  Travels 
(1821.  29)  and  the  Second  Part  of  Faust  (1832)  he  gave  to 
the  world  his  last  message  and  his  final  legacy. 

In  Wilhelm  Meisters  Apprenticeship  and  the  First  Part  of 
Faust,  as  we  have  seen  before, Goethe  had  given  a typical 
expression  to  that  most  vital  of  eighteenth-century  ideals, 
to  the  striving  for  completeness  of  individual  culture.  But 
Goethe  was  more  than  a poetic  interpreter  of  eighteenth- 
century  ideals.  Not  in  vain  had  he  lived  through  the  years 
of  national  humiliation  following  so  closely  upon  the  classic 
days  of  individual  culture;  not  in  vain  had  he  witnessed  the 
birth  of  a new  national  life  out  of  most  extraordinary  trials 
and  sacrifices.  He  had  come  to  see  that  subordination  of 
the  individual  to  the  collective  tasks  of  national  culture, 
that  the  organization  of  the  masses,  that  the  regulation 
of  public  service  would  be  the  supreme  problem  of  the 
future.  And  now,  at  a time  when  all  that  had  been  gained 
in  those  years  of  national  reconstruction  seemed  again  to 
be  lost,  when  a most  vicious  system  of  political  as  well  as 
religious  reaction  seemed  to  bring  back  the  worst  days  of 

Bei  Betrachtung  von  Schillers  Schddel  17.  Sept.  1826;  JVerhe  111, 
191.  For  other  lyric  expressions  of  Goethe’s  pantheism  cf.  Prooemion, 
Weltseele,  Eins  und  Alles  ; Werke  II,  223-26. 

Cf.  supra  p,  355  £f.  362  £f. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  533 


aristocratic  class  rule,  he  once  more  arose  as  the  prophet  of 
a free  and  exalted  humanity:  he  pointed  forward  to  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  democracy  through  universal  self*sur- 
render. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  neither  Wilhelm  Meisiers 
Travels  nor  the  Second  Part  of  Faust  is  a representation  of 
life  as  it  is.  Both  are  symbolic  suggestions  of  what  to  the 
aged  Goethe  was  the  life  to  be  striven  for.  They  may  be 
called  utopian.  But  in  calling  them  so,  let^us  not  forget 
that  the  whole  history  of  civilization  is.  a continual  struggle 
for  the  realization  of  ideas  which  before  they  won  the  sup- 
port of  the  majority  were  considered  utopian.  And  who 
can  fail  to  see  that  no  small  part  of  what  is  dimly  outlined 
in  these  poetic  visions  of  Goethe’s  last  years  has  already 
been  transformed  into  living  reality  ? 

If  the  principal  theme  of  Wilhelm  Meister's  Lehrjahre 
was  individual  culture,  the  principal  theme  of  the  Wander- 
jahre  is  society  well  organized.  There  the  watchword  was 
universality,  unchecked  development,  variety  of 
experience,  fulness  of  the  inner  life;  here  the  Meister’s 
watchword  is  specialization,  discipline,  renun- 
ciation,  doing ! There  we  saw  the  transition  from  the  old 
regime  of  hereditary  aristocracy  to  the  new  aristocracy  of 
the  spirit;  here  we  see  the  transformation  of  this  spiritual 
aristocracy  into  a democracy  of  fellow  workers. 

Each  of  the  three  books  into  which  the  Wanderjahre  is 
divided  contains,  among  much  that  is  irrelevant  and  capri- 
cious, at  least  one  important  stage  of  this  development. 

The  first  leads  us  from  that  charming  apotheosis  of 
handicraft,  the  idyllic  story  of  St.  Joseph  the  Second 
through  the  reflections  of  Jarno  the  naturalist,  into  the 
sphere  of  The  Uncle,”  the  embodiment  of  American 

Chapters  i and  2.  Like  most  of  the  novelettes  inserted  into  the 
main  narrative  of  the  Wander jahre,  this  story  was  written  long  before 
the  composition  of  the  whole  : about  1799.  In  nearly  all  these  novel- 
ettes the  underlying  idea  is  some  form  of  renunciation. 


534  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

common-sense  and  enterprise  combined  with  European 
culture.^*^  Its  essence  may  be  summed  up  in  the  words  of 
Jarno"^^: 

‘^Many-sidedness  prepares  only  the  element  in  which  the  one- 
sided can  work.  Now  is  the  time  for  the  one-sided;  well  for  him 
who  comprehends  it,  and  who  works  for  himself  and  others  in 
this  spirit.  Practice  till  you  are  an  able  violinist,  and  be  assured 
that  the  director  will  have  pleasure  in  assigning  you  a place  in 
the  orchestra.  Make  an  instrument  of  yourself,  and  wait  and 
see  what  sort  of  place  humanity  will  grant  you  in  universal  life. 
Everywhere  one  needs  to  serve  from  the  ranks  upward.  To 
limit  one’s  self  to  one  craft  is  best.  To  the  narrow  mind  it  will  be 
nothing  but  a craft;  to  the  more  intelligent  an  art;  and  the  best, 
when  he  does  one  thing,  does  everything — or,  to  be  less  para- 
doxical, in  the  one  thing  which  he  does  rightly  he  beholds  the 
semblance  of  everything  that  is  rightly  done.” 

Nowhere  is  the  contrast  between  the  Lehrjahre  and  the 
Wander jahre^  between  Goethe  the  individualist  and  Goethe 
the  collectivist,  more  clearly  marked  than  in  the  principles 
of  education  set  forth  in  each  of  these  works.  The  funda 
mental  lesson  of  the  Lehrjahre  is  that  in  order  to  be  a cul- 
tivated individual  you  must  tread  the  labyrinthine  path  of 
mistakes  and  aberrations.  The  fundamental  lesson  of  the 
Wanderjahre  is  that  in  order  to  be  a useful  member  of 
society  you  must  choose  the  straight  road  of  systematic 
drill.  Wilhelm,  in  the  Lehrjahre^  took  the  former;  his  son 
Felix,  in  the  second  book  of  the  Wanderjahre^  is  made  to 
take  the  latter.  Of  course,  this  drill  is  not  of  the  sort 
which  blunts  individuality.  On  the  contrary,  like  Fichte’s 
system  of  national  education,  it  is  to  raise  individuality  to 
a higher  standard,  to  give  the  individual  a clearer  sense  of 
his  faculties  and  his  limitations,  to  impart  to  him  a deeper 
knowledge  of  the  whole  order  of  life  which  is  the  condition 
of  his  own  existence.  The  classic  expression  of  this  spirit 
is  the  famous  chapter  of  the  Three  Reverences,”  which 

Chapters  5 to  7. 

IVanderj.  I,  4;  Werke  XVIII,  55. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  53$ 


found  such  an  ardent  admirer  in  Carlyle.  On  entering  the 
‘‘  Pedagogic  Province,”  the  hallowed  precinct  where  his  son 
is  to  be  educated,  AVilhelm  observes  that  he  is  greeted  by 
the  assembled  youth  with  strange  and  varied  gestures.  The 
youngest  children  cross  their  arms  on  their  breasts  and 
look  upward;  the  older  ones  hold  their  arms  behind  them 
and  look  to  the  ground;  the  oldest  place  themselves  in  a 
row,  and,  standing  erect,  with  arms  at  their  sides,  turn  their 
heads  to  the  right.  Wilhelm  inquires  what  these  gestures 
signify,  and  he  receives  the  answer  Reverence,  a three- 
fold reverence! 

“The  first  is  reverence  for  that  which  is  above  us.  That  ges- 
ture, the  arms  folded  on  the  breast,  a cheerful  glance  toward  the 
sky,  that  is  what  we  prescribe  to  our  untutored  children,  requir- 
ing thereby  witness  of  them  that  there  is  a God  on  high  who 
reflects  himself  in  our  parents,  tutors,  and  superiors.  The  se- 
cond, reverence  for  that  which  is  below  us.  The  hands  folded  on 
the  back  as  if  tied  together,  the  lowered,  smiling  glance,  bespeak 
that  we  have  to  regard  the  earth  carefully  and  cheerfully;  it  gives 
us  an  opportunity  to  maintain  ourselves;  it  affords  unspeakable 
joys;  but  it  brings  disproportionate  sufferings.  If  one  hurts  one’s 
self  bodily,  whether  through  a fault  or  innocently;  if  others  hurt 
one,  intentionally  or  accidentally;  if  earthly  chance  does  one  any 
harm,  let  that  be  carefully  thought  of;  for  such  danger  accom- 
panies us  all  our  life  long.  But  from  this  condition  we  deliver 
our  pupil  as  quickly  as  possible:  as  soon  as  we  are  convinced 
that  the  teachings  of  this  stage  have  made  a sufficient  impression 
upon  him.  Then  we  bid  him  be  a man,  look  to  his  companions, 
and  guide  himself  with  reference  to  them.  Now  he  stands  erect 
and  bold,  yet  not  selfishly  isolated;  only  in  union  with  his  equals 
does  he  present  a brave  front  to  the  world.  We  are  unable  to 
add  anything  further.” 

The  third  book,  finally,  brings  the  consummation  of 
Wilhelm’s  career  through  his  joining,  as  a physician,  that 
little  band  of  travelling  mechanics  whom  Goethe  seems  to 
have  meant  as  prophetic  types  of  a coming  era  of  industrial 
organization  and  international  fraternity.  To  be  at  home 


244 


Wander j,  II,  i;  1.  c.  164  f. 


53^  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


wherever  you  can  serve;  to  be  an  apostle  of  peace,  a 
pioneer  of  civilization  among  whatever  people,  in  whatever 
clime;  to  consider  your  own  property  as  a trust  to  be 
administered  for  the  benefit  of  the  community;  to  respect 
all  creeds,  to  respect  all  governments  as  more  or  less  per- 
fect expressions  of  the  supreme  law;  but  at  the  same  time 
to  work  for  the  coming  of  a world-religion  and  a world- 
republic;  to  hope  for  a future  when  mankind  shall  have 
reached  such  a state  of  spirituality  that  it  will  feel  itself 
truly  one  with  the  universal  spirit  which  controls  all  solar 
systems — these  are  the  ideals  in  which  Wilhelm's  restless 
search  for  culture  finds  a lasting  satisfaction.  Truly,  like 
Saul  the  son  of  Kish,  he  had  gone  out  to  find  his  father’s 
asses,  and  he  found  a kingdom.*^® 

The  same  gospel  of  renunciation  and  deed  which  forms 
the  climax  of  Wilhelm  Meister’s  development  is  the  condi- 
tion of  the  final  salvation  of  Faust.  As  we  have 

TheSecrad  before, this  gospel  is  heard  even  in  the 

Part  of  Faust.  or 

first  part  of  the  drama  ; it  is  implied  in  the  very 

contract  by  which  Faust  binds  himself  to  Mephisto.  Its 
full  application,  however,  it  receives  only  in  the  second 
part. 

There  is,  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  act,  a scene  of 
marvellous  power  and  beauty,  in  which  Faust,  stepping 
forth  from  the  clouds  that  have  borne  him  over  land  and 
sea,  alights  on  a lonely  mountain-peak.  Gazing  at  the 
changing  forms  of  the  nebulous  masses  as  they  roll  away, 
he  sees  in  them  images  of  the  two  women  to  whom  the 
best  of  his  life  belongs;  Gretchen  and  Helena  ; and  he  pours 


A symbolic  anticipation  of  this  state  is  the  mysterious  hc^^ure  of 
Makarie.  Cf.  Wanderj,  III,  14.  15;  /.  c.  404  ff. — An  excellent  analy- 
sis of  the  ideals  of  life  held  out  in  the  Wanderjahre  in  Ferd.  Grego- 
rovius,  Goethe  s IVilh.  Meister  in  s.  socialistischen  Elementen  /.  85  ff. 
Cf.  Eckermann,  Gespr.  I,  135. 

Cf.  supra  p.  364  ff. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  537 


out  his  feelings  for  them  in  words  full  of  sublimest  pas- 

• 248 

Sion  : 

Down  gazing  on  the  deepest  solitudes  below, 

I tread  deliberately  this  summit’s  lonely  edge, 

Relinquishing  my  cloudy  car,  which  hither  bore 
Me  softly  through  the  shining  day  o’er  land  and  sea. 
Unscattered,  slowly  moved,  it  separates  from  me. 

Off  eastward  strives  the  mass  with  rounded,  rolling  march: 
And  strives  the  eye,  amazed,  admiring,  after  it. 

In  motion  it  divides,  in  wave-like,  changeful^uise; 

Yet  seems  to  shape  a figure. — Yes!  mine  eyes  not  err! 

On  sun-illumined  pillows  beauteously  reclined, 

Colossal,  truly,  but  a godlike  woman-form 
I see!  The  like  of  Juno,  Leda,  Helena, 

Majestically  lovely,  floats  before  my  sight! 

Ah,  now  ’tis  broken!  Towering  broad  and  formlessly, 

It  rests  along  the  east  like  distant  icy  hills, 

And  shapes  the  grand  significance  of  fleeting  days. 

Yet  still  there  clings  a light  and  delicate  band  of  mist 
Around  my  breast  and  brow,  caressing,  cheering  me. 

Now  light,  delayingly,  it  soars  and  higher  soars. 

And  folds  together. ^ — Cheats  me  an  ecstatic  form, 

As  early-youthful,  long-foregone  and  highest  bliss? 

The  first  glad  treasures  of  my  deepest  heart  break  forth; 
Aurora’s  love,  so  light  of  pinion,  is  its  type, 

The  swiftly-felt,  the  first,  scarce-comprehended  glance. 
Outshining  every  treasure,  when  retained  and  held. 

Like  spiritual  beauty  mounts  the  gracious  form, 

Dissolving  not,  but  lifts  itself  through  ether  far. 

And  from  my  inner  being  bears  the  best  away. 

Gretchen  had  been  the  Aurora  of  Faust’s  existence.  The 
humble  German  burgher-maiden,  the  na'ive  child  of  the 
people,  all  tenderness,  all  simplicity,  all  love,  had  opened  be- 
fore him  a world  of  undefiled  beauty  and  grace.  His  own 
frenzy  destroyed  this  world,  and  now  he  has  to  live  the 
long,  cheerless  day  of  lonely  struggle.  Now  there  rises  be- 
fore him  the  ideal  form  of  another  woman  : Helena,  the 


2*8  Faust  II,  10039  ff. 


538  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


brilliant  Greek  heroine,  the  representative  of  classic  culture, 
the  symbol  of  a life  devoted  to  freedom  and  progress. 

The  Faust  of  the  Gretchen  tragedy,  with  all  his  sublime 
feelings,  with  all  his  noble  aspirations,  was  nevertheless 
essentially  a gigantic  egotist.  The  Faust  of  the  Second 
Part,  with  all  his  thirst  for  power,  with  all  his  craving  for 
self-expansion,  is  nevertheless  essentially  a worker  for  hu- 
manity. The  former  felt,  even  in  the  arms  of  Gretchen, 
the  curse  of  a consuming  desire  uponhim*^®: 

I am  the  fugitive,  all  houseless  roaming, 

The  monster  without  aim  or  rest, 

That  like  a cataract,  down  rocks  and  gorges  foaming, 
Leaps,  maddened,  into  the  abyss’s  breast. 

The  latter  has  come  to  feel  that,  while 

The  thrill  of  awe  is  man’s  best  quality,*^®® 

‘‘  enjoyment  makes  vulgar  and,  dying,  he  proclaims  the 
redeeming  power  of  ceaseless  endeavour®^®: 

Yes!  to  this  thought  I hold  with  firm  persistence  ; 

The  last  result  of  wisdom  stamps  it  true  : 

He  only  earns  his  freedom  and  existence 
Who  daily  conquers  them  anew. 

in  other  words,  he  finds  the  ideal  life  in  making  even  the 
receptive  part  of  his  nature  subservient  to  moral  aims,  in 
blending  the  highest  spiritual  culture  with  the  most  intense 
and  the  most  unselfish  practical  activity. 

The  Second  Part  of  Faust  is  a triumphal  song  of  civili- 
zation; it  is  a glorification  of  individual  culture  hallowed 
through  devotion  to  collective  tasks.  Isolation,  selfishness, 
negation,  destroy  themselves.  Homunculus, the  per- 

Faust  /,  3348  ff.  250  5272. 

Ib,  10259. 

252a  For  the  part  played  by  Homunculus  in  the  economy  of  the 
drama,  especially  with  regard  to  Helena,  cf.  V.  Valentin,  Hoviunkulus 
und  Helena;  Goethe-Jahrb.  XVI,  127  ff.  For  Helena  cf.  J.  Niejahr, 
Euphorion^  I,  81  fl. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  539 

sonified  desire  for  individual  life,  loses  his  individuality  at 
the  very  moment  that  he  reaches  true  existence.  Eupho- 
rion,  the  embodiment  of  uncontrolled  fancy  and  reckless 
aspiration,  while  presuming  to  soar  to  inaccessible  heights, 
falls  helpless  to  the  ground.  Mephisto,  the  arch-scoffer 
and  deceiver,  is  defeated,  because  he  has  no  conception  of 
the  all-conquering  power  of  a steadfast  purpose.  Faust  is 
saved,  because  he  makes  every  new  experience  a stepping- 
stone  for  a higher  and  more  complete  form  of  existence. 
Sin  itself  seems  to  have  ennobled  him.  After  he  has  seen 
Gretchen  in  the  dungeon,  after  he  has  been  overwhelmed^ 
at  the  sight  of  her  fate,  by  ‘‘mankind’s  collected  woe,”^^'" 
he  seems  to  be  raised  above  all  lower  desire.  Henceforth 
his  life  belongs  to  the  world  at  large,  and  every  new  temp- 
tation he  turns  into  an  opportunity  for  wider  activity.  As 
statesman,  as  general,  nay,  even  in  the  fantastic  pursuit  of 
Helena,  he  appears  as  a man  who  has  espoused  the  cause  of 
human  happiness.  In  the  last  two  acts  he  is  clearly  a spokes- 
man of  Liberalism,  a stanch  opponent  of  the  principles 
which  guided  the  policy  of  the  Holy  Alliance.  The  Em- 
peror and  his  satellites,  as  representatives  of  the  political 
and  religious  reaction  which  set  in  after  1815,  see  in  the 
pacification  of  the  empire,  brought  about  through  Faust, 
nothing  but  a chance  for  re-establishing  their  own  feudal 
privileges  ; Faust  builds  upon  it  plans  of  social  reform  and 
popular  enterprise  which  seem  a prophecy  of  the  time  when 
millions  of  German  emigrants  were  to  take  part  in  the  peace- 
ful conquests  of  the  great  republic  beyond  the  sea.  He 
dies  as  a champion  of  democracy.  His  last  vision  is  that  of 
a free  people  living  on  a free  soil 


Faust  ly  4406. 

25'*  Faust  II y 11563  ff. — One  might  say  that  in  this  vision  of  the  dying 
Faust  and  in  the  final  philosophy  of  Voltaire’s  Candide — “il  faut 
cultiver  notre  jardin  ” {CEuvres  CovipL  XXI,  218) — there  are  typified 
both  the  affinity  and  the  contrast  between  the  eighteenth  and  the 
nineteenth  century. 


540  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


To  many  millions  let  me  furnish  soil, 

Though  not  secure,  yet  free  to  active  toil  ; 

Green,  fertile  fields,  where  men  and  herds  go  forth 
At  once,  with  comfort,  on  the  newest  earth, 

And  swiftly  settled  on  the  hill’s  firm  base, 

Created  by  the  bold,  industrious  race. 

A land  like  Paradise  here,  round  about: 

Up  to  the  brink  the  tide  may  roar  without. 

And  though  it  gnaw,  to  burst  with  force  the  limit, 

By  common  impulse  all  unite  to  hem  it. — 

Thus  here,  by  dangers  girt,  shall  glide  away 
Of  childhood,  manhood,  age,  the  vigorous  day. 

And  such  a throng  I fain  would  see, — 

Stand  on  free  soil  among  a people  free! 

Then  dare  I hail  the  moment  fleeing  : 

‘Ah,  still  delay — thou  art  so  fair!’ 

The  traces  cannot,  of  mine  earthly  being, 

In  aeons  perish, — they  are  there! — 

In  proud  forefeeling  of  such  lofty  bliss, 

I now  enjoy  the  highest  moment, — this. 

Only  a few  months  after  Goethe  had  brought  his  life’s 
work  to  a close — he  himself  considered  the  days  left  to  him 
after  the  completion  of  Faust  as  a “ pure  gift”  — 
there  died  (in  November,  1831)  the  philosopher 
whose  name  must  be  placed  by  the  side  of  Goethe’s  as  that 
of  the  other  great  leader  from  the  era  of  the  Holy  Alliance 
to  the  Revolution  of  1848. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Hegel  in  a certain  sense  was 
himself  a part  of  the  inglorious  reaction  which  in  the  decades 
The  Phano  l^ollowing  the  Congress  of  Vienna  threatened  to 
menologie  des  blot  out  the  ideas  of  national  freedom  and  great- 
Geistes.  uprising  of  1813.  It 

must  be  admitted  that  he  was,  as  a thinker,  a worshipper  of 
scholastic  formulas  ; as  a man,  a worshipper  of  the  powers 
that  be.  In  his  early  manhood  he  had  witnessed  the  down- 
fall of  Prussia,  the  annihilation  of  the  German  empire  under 
the  footsteps  of  the  foreign  conqueror.  But  even  less  than 


Cf.  Eckermann,  Gespr.  II,  237, 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  54I 


Goethe  had  he  been  stirred  by  this  sight  to  patriotic  indig- 
nation and  activity.  While  the  battle  of  Jena  was  being 
fought,  nay,  within  the  very  hearing  of  the  thunder  of  its 
cannon,  he  had  finished  his  first  remarkable  book,  the 
Phenomenology  of  Spirit  (1806).  But  in  vain  would  you 
listen  in  this  book  for  an  echo,  however  faint,  of  the  great 
catastrophe  in  the  midst  of  which  it  was  written.  While 
every  stone  of  the  tottering  edifice  of  the  German  state 
seemed  to  call  out  the  truth  that  it  is  the  will  and  not  the 
intellect  which  builds  the  world,  Hegel  fancied  that  he 
was  drawing  a true  picture  of  reality  by  representing  it  as 
a succession  of  varying  degrees  of  self-comprehension,  by 
dissolving  the  history  of  human  culture  into  a kaleidoscopic 
show  of  shifting  intellectual  moods.  While  every  new  day 
seemed  to  be  an  added  proof  that  it  was  overstrained  intel- 
lectuality which  was  plunging  the  nation  into  defeat  after 
defeat,  Hegel  persisted  in  seeing  the  essence  of  life  in  dia- 
lectic abstractions,  in  proclaiming  as  the  highest  existence — 
not  fullest  activity,  but  absolute  knowledge.” 

Indeed,  it  is  not  surprising  that  a man  who  had  so  little 
feeling  for  the  concrete  forces  and  struggles  of 
national  life  as  the  author  of  the  Phenomenology 
should  have  found  it  easy  to  make  himself  a tool 
of  despotism.  It  is  not  surprising  that  he  should  have  spoken 
of  Napoleon  as  the  world-soul”  ; that  he  should  have 
prevailed  upon  himself  to  edit,  in  the  midst  of  his  country’s 
degradation  through  Napoleon,  a Napoleonic  newspaper  ; 
that  he  should  have  discountenanced,  after  the  War  of  Libe- 
ration, the  movement  to  obtain  parliamentary  government  ; 
that  he  should  have  characterized  the  people  in  contradis- 
tinction from  the  government  as  “ that  part  of  the  state 
which  does  not  know  its  own  will”"^^;  that  he  should  have 

Cf.  K.  Rosenkranz,  Hegels  Lehen  p.  229. 

Thus  R.  Haym,  Hegel  u.  s,  Zeit  p,  272,  characterizes  the  spirit  in 
which  Hegel  from  1807  to  8 managed  the  Bamberger  Zeiiung, 

258  Philosophic  des  Rechts  (1821)  § 301;  Werke  VIII,  386. 


542  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

Stooped  to  unworthy  compromises  of  his  own,  essentially 
liberal  thought  with  the  divine  right  of  kings  and  the  infal- 
lible authority  of  the  church  ; that  he  should  have  ended 
in  a fanatic  admiration  of  Prussian  bureaucracy  as  the  most 
perfect  embodiment  of  organized  public  intelligence.^^® 
With  all  this,  the  Hegelian  philosophy  has  fulfilled  a great 
and  noble  mission  in  the  history  of  modern  culture.  If  it  has 
created  no  new  ideals  of  life,  it  has  reconstructed 
the  old  ; it  has  systematized  the  whole  complex 
of  ideas  to  which  it  had  fallen  heir  ; it  has  been 
a vessel  of  preservation  and  an  instrument  of  reconstruction 
for  the  pantheistic  thought  of  Herder,  Kant,  Fichte,  Schelling, 
and  Schleiermacher  ; it  has  been  — to  say  it  in  a word — the 
first  comprehensive  attempt  to  make  the  collectivistic  view 
of  life  the  key  for  the  interpretation  of  the  universe. 

Hegel  looks  at  the  world  not  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
individual,  but  from  the  standpoint  of  the  absolute  mind. 
Indeed,  the  individual  does  not  exist  for  him  except  as  a 
part  of  the  absolute  mind.  All  life  is  to  him  a continual, 
endless  self-unfolding  of  the  infinite  ; it  is  comprised  in  the 
eternal  circle  of  unity,  differentiation,  and  return  to  unity 
(or,  as  Hegel  expresses  it,  of  thesis,  antithesis,  and  synthe- 
sis). The  finite  is  the  infinite  on  its  way  from  mere  iden- 
tity with  itself  to  organic  complexity.  Nature  is  mind  on  its 
way  from  an  abstract  and,  as  it  were,  empty  self-conscious- 
ness to  a self-consciousness  fraught  with  the  fulness  of  life. 

The  rational  is  real,  and  the  real  is  rational”®®";  every- 
thing is  a phase,  a necessary  phase,  in  the  one  all-absorbing 
struggle  of  life  : the  struggle  of  the  divine  spirit  to  attain, 
through  differentiation,  negation,  contradiction,  destruction, 
to  the  most  complete  realization  of  itself.®""^ 

Cf.  the  Kritik  der  engl.  Reformbill ; Werke  XVII,  425  ff. 

‘^60  Words  from  the  Preface  to  the  Philos,  d.  R.;  Werke  VIII,  17. 

260a  same  decade,  1820-30,  which  brought  the  Hegelian  system 
to  its  final  completion,  matured  in  Alexander  von  Humboldt  that 
comprehensive  conception  of  the  physical  universe  which  found  its 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION,  543 


The  human  mind  is  the  highest  form  of  the  divine  spirit 
accessible  to  our  understanding  ; man’s  consciousness  of 
God  is  God’s  self-consciousness  : these  are  the  premises 
which  led  Hegel  to  a theory  of  public  life  which  ^is  view  of 
cannot  but  be  called  a deification  of  the  state  and  the  state  and 
of  human  history.  The  state  is  not,  as  Rous-  of^istory. 
seau  thought,  the  result  of  a contract  between  individuals  ; 
it  exists  before  and  above  the  individuals.  It  is  the  divine 
will  itself  embodied  in  human  will,  it  is  reason  made  mani- 
fest, the  infinite  personified."*®^  It  is  its  own  aim  ; that  is,  its 
office  is  not  to  further  individual  interests,  to  protect  pri- 
vate property — these  and  similar  functions  of  the  state  are 
merely  incidental  and  subordinate — its  real  office  is  to  be 
an  embodiment  of  the  organic  unity  of  public  life.  The 
highest  task  of  the  individual  is  to  co-operate  in  making 
this  embodiment  complete.  The  highest  freedom  is  service 
to  the  state.  And  what  constitutes  the  measure  of  human 
progress  ? Who  are  the  true  heroes  of  the  world’s  history  ? 
There  is  only  one  true  hero  of  the  world’s  history,  and 
that  is  the  idea  of  humanity  itself.  Individual  men,  nay, 
even  individual  nations,  are  nothing  but  organs  of  this  uni- 
versal idea ; and  the  only  measure  of  their  greatness  is  to 
be  found  in  their  fitness  to  embody  this  idea. 

Hegel  sees  in  history  a continual  progress  toward  free- 
dom, and  he  distinguishes  three  great  epochs  in 

this  development  : the  Oriental,  the  Graeco-Ro- 

. freedom  I 

man,  and  the  Germanic.  In  the  first  epoch  only 

one  was  free,  in  the  second  some  were  free,  in  the  third  all 
are  free.*®^  But  it  is  clear  that  by  freedom  Hegel  under- 
stands, not  individual  independence,  but  rather  universal 
responsibility ; that  the  climax  of  human  development  is  to 

final  form  in  his  Kosmos  (1845-58,  first  outlined  in  public  lectures  de- 
livered at  Berlin  1827-28). 

Cf.  Philos,  d.  R.  % 2S"]  i.  2^2)]  1.  c.  305  ff.  352.  Levy-Bruhl,  VAl- 
le^nagne  depuis  Leibniz  p,  388  ff. 

Cf.  Philosophie  der  Geschichte,  Einl.;  Werke  IX,  23  f. 


544  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


him,  not  highest  individual  culture,  but  rather  the  most 
fully  organized  and  the  widest  reaching  collective  con- 
sciousness. The  individuals  are  sacrificed,  the  idea  of  the 
whole  lives  on  ; and  only  by  living  in  and  for  this  idea  may 
the  individual  be  admitted  to  a share  in  its  immortality. 

Whatever  may  be  said  about  the  technical  foundations  of 
this  system  of  thought,  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  inspiring 
breath  that  emanates  from  it.  Even  as  a mere  dream  of  the 
world  it  is  one  of  the  most  consistent  views  of 

71l0  0SS6Ut)i£Ll  • 

liberalism  of  world  ever  conceived.  It  seems  to  open  the 

the  Hegelian  whole  universe,  to  solve  every  riddle,  to  shed  a 
system,  fight  of  eternity  even  upon  the  most  fleeting,  to 

hallow  even  the  most  humble  fife  by  connecting  it  with  the 
life  of  the  infinite  spirit.  It  makes  the  world  an  evolution 
of  the  divine;  it  sees  in  human  society  an  organism  whose 
principal  function  is  the  living  out  of  the  universal  idea;  it 
finds  the  goal  of  human  progress  in  the  establishment  of  the 
kingdom  of  God  on  earth.  It  is  Christianity  secularized. 

It  will  now  be  seen  in  what  sense  the  aged  Goethe  and 
Hegel  must  be  called  the  true  representatives  of  German 
The  develop-  culture  in  the  era  of  the  Restoration.  While  the 
1830^0°^  majority  of  their  contemporaries  either  stooped 
1848.  to  a blind  worship  of  the  divine  right  of  kings  as 

embodied  in  the  men  of  the  Holy  Alliance,  or  wasted  their 
strength  in  capricious  and  spasmodic  attacks  against  the 
ruling  system,  or  again  submitted  to  existing  conditions  with 
the  impotent  defiance  of  blighted  hope,  Goethe  and  Hegel, 
although  not  entirely  free  from  the  contagion  of  a diseased 
age,  yet  in  the  main  stood  faithfully  by  the  great  national 
traditions  of  the  generation  of  1813;  and  the  whole  intel- 
lectual development  of  Germany  from  1830  to  1848  may  be 
said  to  consist  in  the  gradual  ascendency  and  final  triumph 
of  the  ideas  of  public  fife  contained  in  the  Hegelian  phi- 
losophy and  the  Second  Part  of  Fa^ist. 

Into  the  details  of  this  development  we  shall  not  enter. 
Suffice  it  to  point  out  briefly  its  three  most  noteworthy  stages. 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION  545 


The  first — covering,  in  point  of  time,  the  decade  from  the 
Paris  July  Revolution  (1830)  to  the  death  of  king  Frederick 
William  III.  (1840) — is  on  the  whole  a period  of  waiting  and 
doubt.^”  That  a storm  is  approaching  cannot  be  questioned. 
There  is  constant  sheet-lightning  on  the  hori- 
zon. Young  Germany  ” issues  its  first  rationa-  ^er- 

listic  manifestoes:  Bdrne’s  Letters  from  Paris, 

Heine’s  essays  on  German  thought,  Gutzkow’s  Wally,  die 
Zweiflerin  (1835).  Political  liberalism  finds  its  first  lyric 
champion  in  Anastasius  Grlin.  Historical  bible  criticism 
achieves  its  first  popular  triumph  in  Strauss’s  Life  of  Jesus 
(1835).  In  some  of  the  minor  German  states  successful 
experiments  in  constitutional  government  are  made;  in 
others  there  ensue  serious  conflicts  between  the  adherents 
of  the  old  order  and  the  new.  The  air  is  full  of  such  watch- 
words as  progress,  emancipation,  humanity,  public  opinion, 
spirit  of  the  time.  It  is  apparent  that  the  individualism  of 
the  eighteenth  century  is  about  to  lock  arms  with  the  col- 
lectivism of  the  nineteenth  in  order  to  march  in  common 
with  it  against  the  citadel  of  Holy  Alliance  feudalism.  But, 
as  yet,  nothing  decisive  has  been  done;  indeed,  as  long  as 
the  two  ruling  states,  Austria  and  Prussia,  offer  a united 
front  to  all  attempts  at  reform,  nothing  decisive  can  be  done. 

With  the  death  of  king  Frederick  William  III.  there  be- 
gins, in  Prussia  at  least,  a new  Frederick  William  IV., 

impulsive,  imaginative,  generous,  susceptible  to 
ideal  aspirations,  seems  for  a time  to  justify  the 
hopes  place^i  upon  him  by  the  friends  of  freedom 
and  progress.  Soon,  however,  it  becomes  apparent  that  this 
enthusiastic  lover  of  art,  this  magnanimous  patron  of  learn- 

An  excellent  account  of  this  period,  with  especial  emphasis  on 
the  activity  of  Gutzkow  and  Laube,  in  J.  Proelss,  D.  junge  Deutsch- 
land p.  185  ff. 

Cf.  for  this  epoch  G.  Brandes,  D.  junge  Deutschland  p.  344  ff. 
K.  Biedermann,  Dreissig  fahre  deutscher  Geschichte  {1840- 18 JO).  II. 
V.  Treitschke,  D»  Gesch.  im  ig.  fhdt  vol.  v. 


546  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA  TURE, 

ing,  this  devout  believer,  lacks  the  one  quality  indispensable 
to  a monarch:  steadfastness  of  purpose;  that  he  more  and 
more  gives  way  to  a fanciful  and  capricious  desire  to  force 
modern  life  back  into  a picturesque  but  meaningless  medi- 
sevalism.  And  now  the  liberal  movement,  both  encouraged 
arid  threatened,  rapidly  assumes  vaster  and  vaster  propor- 
tions, until  finally  all  other  questions  are  merged  in  one 
vital,  all-absorbing  issue:  on  the  one  side  the  monarchy, 
officialdom,  militarism,  priestcraft;  on  the  other,  the  people, 
popular  justice,  popular  armament,  popular  religion;  on  the 
one  coercion,  on  the  other  freedom;  on  the  one  privilege, 
on  the  other  law;  on  the  one  sectional  rivalry  and  provincial- 
ism, on  the  other  national  unity  and  greatness.  This  is  the 
history  of  the  years  from  1840  to  1848.  This  is  the  issue 
which  rallies  under  the  same  flag  of  opposition  collectivists 
and  individualists,  rationalists  and  pantheists,  the  moderate 
and  the  radical  wing  of  the  Hegelians,  the  adherents  of  a 
constitutional  monarchy  and  socialistic  republicans.  This 
is  the  condition  of  things  which  brings  forth  literary  pro- 
ductions of  such  intense  party  ardour  as  Herwegh’s  Songs 
of  Life  (1841),  Feuerbach’s  Essence  of  Christianity  (1841), 
Dingelstedt’s  Songs  of  a Cosmopolitan  Night-  Watchmaii 
(1842),  Prutz’s  The  Political  Childbed  (1845),  Freiligrath’s 
(fa  ira  (1846),  Gutzkow’s  Uriel  Acosta  (1846).  This  is  the 
struggle  which  leads  to  that  grand  outburst  of  popular  wrath 
and  national  enthusiasm  which  at  last  sweeps  away  the  whole 
machinery  of  Metternich  despotism,  and  makes,  for  a time 
at  least,  democracy  triumphant : the  Revolution  of  1848. 

Public  opinion  of  contemporary  Germany,  dominated  af 
it  is  by  the  colossal  events  of  1870,  is  inclined  to  look  upon 
the  Revolution  of  1848  as  a mere  stage  show. 
I^^zzled  by  the  extraordinary  services  rendered 
to  the  national  cause  by  the  monarchical  states 
men  and  generals  of  the  era  of  William  I.,  it  sees  in  the 
popular  rising  of  fifty  years  ago  nothing  but  a succession  of 
mistakes  and  failures.  But  the  time  will  come  when  1848 


THE  ERA  OF  NATIONAL  RECONSTRUCTION.  547 

will  have  taken  its  place  in  German  history  by  the  side  of 
1813  and  1870  as  one  of  the  supreme  moments  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  The  time  will  come  when  the  March  Revo- 
lution, with  all  its  puerile  mistakes  and  lamentable  failures, 
will  have  been  universally  recognised  as  the  great  national 
awakening  without  which  even  the  successes  of  imperial 
Germany  would  have  been  impossible.  The  time  will 
come  when  the  German  people  will  again  think  with  pride 
and  gratitude  of  the  men  who  in  1848  tried  to  accomplish 
what  even  now  has  not  been  fully  accomplished:  the  unifi- 
cation of  Germany  on  a democratic  basis.  And  then  it  will 
be  seen  more  clearly  than  it  is  seen  now  that  the  Revolution 
of  1848  was  a necessary  outcome  of  the  great  intellectual 
movement  which  had  begun  exactly  a hundred  years  before 
with  Klopstock’s  Messias^  and  the  end  of  which  is  still  hid- 
den in  the  future.^®^ 


This,  in  the  main,  is  the  place  assigned  to  the  Revolution  of  1848 
by  H.  v.  Sybel  in  his  Die  Griindung  des  deutschen  Reiches ^ vol.  I. 


EPILOGUE. 


We  shall  conclude  this  review  of  the  leading  ideas  of 
German  literature  with  a brief  consideration  of  the  moral 
ideals  which  underlie  the  life-work  of  the  greatest  poet  of 
our  own  time,  and  with  a suggestion  of  the  spirit  which  is  at 
work  in  the  most  recent  literary  movement. 

When  the  revolution  of  1848  broke  out,  Richard  Wagner 
had  already  completed  his  first  two  masterpieces,  Tannhdu- 
ser  (1845)  and  Lohengrin  (1847).  ^ suc- 

Eichard  cessful  artistic  activity  seemed  to  lie  before  him, 
when  he  was  drawn  into  the  torrent  of  popular 
enthusiasm  unloosened  by  the  glorious  days  of  March.  He 
went  so  far  as  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  uprising  at 
Dresden,  and  a few  months  later  he  found  himself,  together 
with  Kinkel,  Ruge,  Freiligrath,  and  many  another  champion 
of  freedom  and  right,  an  outlaw  and  an  exile.  It  is  to  Wagner, 
the  banished  revolutionist,  that  German  literature  owes  the 
most  emphatic  proclamation  of  the  artistic  ideal  of  the 
future,  the  ideal  of  pantheistic  collectivism. 

We  have  seen  that  this  was  the  direction  in  which,  since 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  all  German  life  had  been 
developing.  This  was  the  religion  of  Kant  and  Fichte,  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller.  This  was  the  fundamental,  though 
disguised,  idea  of  the  Romantic  movement.  This  was  the 
goal  hovering  before  Hegel  and  his  followers,  before  nearly 
all  the  men  who  in  the  days  of  the  Restoration  stood  for 
liberal  thought.  Richard  Wagner,  therefore,  succeeded  to 
the  most  precious  inheritance  of  German  culture,  when  in 
tlie  essays  Art  and  Revolution  (1849)  Art-Work  of 

the  Future  (1850),  both  written  during  his  exile  in  Switzer- 

548 


EPILOGUE, 


549 


land,  he  prophesied  the  birth  of  a drama  which  would  em- 
body the  aspirations  of  a whole  people,  which  would  be  per- 
vaded with  the  belief  in  the  divineness  of  all  existence. 

Like  Schiller  he  turns  to  Greek  art  as  the  eternal  symbol 
of  the  highest  life.  But  if  Schiller  finds  in  Greek  art  an  ex- 
pression of  individual  culture  brought  to  its  cli-  His  view  of 
max,  Wagner  finds  in  it  a perfect  embodiment  art  as  an  ex- 
of  collective  consciousness.  He  leads  us  back  cJlUctivf^^ 
to  the  Athens  of  the  Persian  wars,  and  makes  scionsness. 
us  witness  the  performance  of  an  AEschylean  tragedy.^ 

“This  people,  in  every  part,  in  every  one  of  its  members 
abounding  in  individuality;  restlessly  active;  seeing  in  the  goal 
of  one  undertaking  only  the  starting-point  of  another  ; in  con- 
tinual friction  with  itself,  in  daily  changing  alliances,  daily  re- 
newed struggles;  to-day  successful,  to-morrow  defeated  ; to-day 
threatened  by  the  extreme  of  danger,  to-morrow  pressing  forward 
to  crush  its  enemies;  absolutely  unchecked  in  its  constant  and 
complete  development,  within  and  without, — this  people  would 
stream  together  from  the  public  meeting,  from  court  and  market- 
place, from  the  country,  from  the  ships,  from  the  camp,  from  most 
distant  parts,  would  fill  to  the  number  of  thirty  thousand  the  am- 
phitheatre to  listen  to  the  profoundest  of  all  tragedies,  .^schylus’s 
Prometheus,,  to  compose  itself  before  the  mightiest  work  of  art,  to 
grasp  the  meaning  of  its  own  activity,  to  melt  into  the  most  inti- 
mate harmony  with  its  own  being,  with  its  totality,  with  its  God, 
and  thus  to  be  again  in  noblest  and  deepest  calm  what  a few 
hours  ago  it  had  been  in  the  most  restless  excitement  and  the 
most  individualized  endeavour.  For  in  the  tragedy  the  spectator 
found  the  noblest  part  of  his  own  self  blended  with  the  noblest 
part  of  the  collective  being  of  his  nation.  Out  of  his  own  inner- 
most nature  he  pronounced  to  himself,  through  the  mouth  of 
the  tragic  poet,  the  Delphian  oracle  ; he,  God  and  priest  in  one, 
divine  man,  himself  in  the  whole,  the  whole  in  him;  like  one  of 
the  thousands  of  fibres  which  in  the  one  life  of  the  plant  grow  from 
the  soil,  lift  themselves  in  slender  forms  into  the  air,  to  produce 
the  flower  which  blossoms  for  eternity.” 

In  glaring  contrast  with  this  ideal  view  of  Greek  civiliza- 


^ Die  Kunst  u,  die  Revolution;  Ges,  Schr,  u.  Dicht,  III,  15  f. 


550  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERA7NRE, 


tion  Wagner  draws  a picture  of  modern  society  in  which 
Modern  easily  recognise  the  socialistic  agitator,  a 

Society.  Karl  Marx  of  poetry  and  art. 

Through  priestcraft,  princely  despotism,  and  industrial^ 
ism,  the  modern  world  has  been  ground  into  a mass  of 
inorganic  atoms.  If  it  was  the  curse  of  Greek  civilization 
that  it  rested  on  a system  of  slavery  which  deprived  at  least 
a part  of  the  population  of  their  human  birthright  by  mak- 
ing them  mere  tools  for  the  benefit  of  the  citizen,  modern 
society  has  extended  this  slavery,  though  different  in  form, 
over  the  vast  majority  of  the  citizens  themselves.  The 
very  essence  of  modern  society  is  a merciless  struggle  for 
material  existence;  the  unchecked  operation  of  the  com- 
mercial principle  of  supply  and  demand,  and  the  conse- 
quent degradation  of  human  labour  to  a mere  commodity; 
the  crowding  together  of  the  masses  in  a few  colossal  work- 
shops managed  for  private  benefit;  the  splitting  up  of  the 
national  body  into  the  toiling  many  and  the  enjoying  few.^ 

‘‘Who  are  the  people?  The  people  is  the  community  of  those 
who  feel  a common  need.  To  it  belong,  therefore,  all  those  who 
recognise  their  own  need  as  a common  one,  who  do  not  expect  a 
relief  from  their  own  need  except  through  the  relief  of  the  com- 
mon need,  and  who,  consequently,  devote  all  their  energies  to 
this  relief  of  the  common  need. — Who  does  not  belong  to  the  peo- 
ple ? And  who  are  its  enemies?  All  those  who  feel  no  need, 
whose  lives  are  actuated  by  an  imaginary,  unreal,  egotistical 
want;  by  a want  which  is  opposed  to  the  common  need,  which  can 
be  satisfied  only  at  the  expense  of  others  going  without  the 
necessities  of  life. 

“And  this  devil,  this  insane  want  without  a want,  this  want  of 
want,  this  want  of  luxury,  rules  the  world.  It  is  the  soul  of  this 
industrial  system  which  kills  the  man  in  order  to  employ  him  as  a 
machine;  the  soul  of  this  state  which  robs  the  citizen  of  his  dignity 
in  order  mercifully  to  accept  him  as  a subject  ; the  soul  of  this 
church  which  sacrifices  the  world  to  an  extramundane  God,  the 

^ For  this  and  the  following  paragraphs  cf.  Kunst  u,  RevoL  (1. 
c.  30  ff.)  and  Das  Ktinsi  de7  Zukunft  (ib.  59  ff.  25). 


EPILOG  UE, 


551 


consummation  of  all  spiritual  luxury  ; it  is — alas  ! — the  soul,  the 
very  condition  of  our  art.” 

True  art  is  a priestess  of  humanity;  the  art  of  our  age  has 
been  degraded  to  a servant  of  the  flesh.  Its  moral  aim  is 
money-making,  its  aesthetic  pretext  the  entertainment  of  the 
ennuied.”  Wearied  and  exhausted,  the  modern  man  hastens 
to  the  theatre,  not  to  be  uplifted,  not  to  find  food  for  reflec- 
tion, not  to  strengthen  his  feeling  of  fellowship  with  all  that 
is  sublime  and  eternal,  but  in  order  to  distract  himself,  to 
get  away  from  the  misery  of  social  dissipations,  if  he  is  rich, 
from  the  monotony  of  toil  and  routine  if  he  is  poor.  Hence 
this  constant  appeal  to  the  sensational,  this  craving  for 
meaningless  pomp,  this  woeful  lack  of  earnestness  and  char- 
acter in  most  of  our  dramatic  productions.  Hence  this 
modern  monstrosity,  Italian  opera,  with  its  Vanity  Fair  of 
sing-song,  spectacular  effects,  and  orchestral  flourishes,  the 
embodiment  of  artistic  impotence,  the  very  negation  of 
organic  unity. 

From  this  gloomy  view  of  the  present — a view  in  which 
with  all  its  onesidedness  and  exaggeration  we  cannot  fail  to 
recognise  a kernel  of  profound  truth — Wagner 
turns  all  the  more  hopefully  toward  the  future,  isticmove- 
Like  Fichte,  he  sees  in  the  climax  of  social  dis- 
integration  the  beginning  of  a new  social  order.  The  great 
mass  of  the  people  having  already  ceased  to  possess  private 
property,  the  final  transformation  of  all  property  into  public 
property  has  become  the  economic  task  of  the  future. 
Inasmuch  as  this  transformation  involves  a struggle  with 
private  privilege  and  individual  selfishness,  its  completion 
still  lies  in  the  far  distance.  But  that  even  now  we  are  in 
the  midst  of  a revolution  tending  toward  this  goal  cannot  be 
doubted.  As  for  Wagner,  he  is  in  fullest  sympathy  with  it. 

“ How,”  thus  he  asks, ^ “ how  in  the  present  stage  of  social 
development  does  this  revolutionary  tendency  express  itself^ 


Kunst  u.  RevoL;  /.  c.  39. 


552  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Does  it  not  most  strikingly  express  itself  as  defiance  on  the  part 
of  the  workman,  based  upon  the  moral  consciousness  of  his 
industry  as  opposed  to  the  vicious  idleness  or  immoral  activity 
of  the  rich?  Does  he  not,  as  a revenge,  want  to  make  the  prin- 
ciple of  work  the  only  saving  religion  of  society?  Does  he  not 
want  to  force  the  rich  to  work  like  him,  to  earn  like  him  his  daily 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow?  Must  we  not  fear  that  the  car- 
rying out  of  this  principle  would  make  degrading  toil  an  abso- 
lute and  universal  power  and  (to  limit  ourselves  to  our  main  sub- 
ject) would  destroy  for  all  time  true  art?  This  is  indeed  the 
apprehension  of  many  an  honest  friend  of  art,  even  of  many  a 
sincere  philanthropist  who  has  the  preservation  of  the  best  in 
our  civilization  at  heart.  But  these  men  fail  to  see  the  true 
essence  of  the  great  social  movement.  They  are  misled  by  the 
expression  of  violent  hatred  on  the  part  of  the  oppressed.  Even 
this  hatred  proceeds  from  a deep  and  noble  instinct,  the  instinct 
for  a dignified  enjoyment  of  life,  the  desire  to  press  forward 
from  toil  to  art,  from  slavery  to  free  humanity.” 

And  the  real  aim  of  this  great  movement  is  the  final  and 
complete  emancipation  of  all,  by  making  each  subservient 
to  all;  it  is  the  bringing  about  of  a state  * 

“in  which  men  will  have  freed  themselves  from  the  last  super- 
stition, the  superstition  that  man  can  be  a tool  for  an  aim  lying 
outside  of  himself.  Having  at  last  recognised  himself  as  the 
only  aim  of  his  existence,  having  discovered  that  this  aim  can  be 
reached  only  through  collective  work,  man’s  social  creed  will 
consist  in  a practical  affirmation  of  the  doctrine  of  Jesus:  ‘ There- 
fore take  no  thought,  saying.  What  shall  we  eat?  or.  What  shall 
we  drink?  or.  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed?  For  your 
heavenly  Father  knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  all  these  things.’ 
And  this  heavenly  father  will  be  none  else  but  the  collective 
wisdom  of  humanity  which  appropriates  nature  and  its  fulness 
for  the  benefit  of  all.” 

Society,  in  other  words,  is  striving  for  a state  where  in- 
dividual morality  shall  have  been  absorbed  in  collective 
morality;  and  in  this  state,  Wagner  predicts, 
art  will  have  found  its  rightful  place  as  the 
highest  moral  agency  of  the  world;  it  will  at  last 
be  in  a position  where,  unsullied  by  selfishness  and  sordid 


* Kunst  ti.  RevoL;  1.  c.  40. 


EPILOGUE. 


553 


^2iin,  it  will  without  reserve  abandon  itself  to  its  supreme 
mission  of  interpreting  and  sanctifying  life.  The  art-work 
of  the  future  will  be  again  what  the  Greek  tragedy,  what 
the  Nibelu7ige7ilied.,  what  the  mediseval  cathedrals  were,  the 
product  of  the  collective  energy  of  a whole  age.  But,  since 
this  age  will  be  more  enlightened,  more  spiritual,  more 
comprehensive  than  any  previous  age,  it  will  produce  also 
a work  of  art  more  enlightened,  more  spiritual,  and  more 
comprehensive  than  the  artistic  creations  of  all  former  ages. 

As  the  majority  of  people  will  probably  always  be  inclined 
to  look  at  social  questions  from  the  commercial  point  of 
view,  a resolute  and  fearless  proclamation  of  the  eternal 
values  of  human  life  is  doubly  needed.  And  if  the  millen- 
nium of  unselfishness  and  collective  devotion,  if  the  golden 
age  of  poetry  and  art,  prophesied  by  Wagner,  has  not  come 
yet;  if  in  the  form  predicted  by  him  it  will  probably  never 
come,  it  still  remains  an  ideal  worthy  of  the  best  inspiration 
of  the  best  men. 

Nor  should  the  fact  that  Wagner  in  later  life  made  a 
compromise  with  existing  conditions  be  taken  as  evidence 
that  the  ideals  of  his  early  manhood  failed  him  at  the  height 
of  his  power.  For  never  perhaps  has  an  artist  felt  himself 
so  distinctly  and  persistently  as  the  representative  of  a 
whole  nation  as  he.  And  who  can  listen  to  the  enchanting 
Waldweben or  the  pathetic  farewell  scene  between 
Wotan  and  Briinnhilde  in  Die  Walkilre,  to  the  soul-stirring 
scene  in  Siegfried  where  Briinnhilde  is  awakened  by  her 
deliverer’s  ^Mong,  long  kiss  of  youth  and  love,”  to  Sieg- 
fried’s majestic  funeral  dirge  in  Die  G d ti er damme rung^ 
without  feeling  that  here  indeed  is  expressed  the  funda- 
mental passion,  the  innermost  struggle,  the  deepest  long- 
ing of  a man  who  derives  his  noblest  feelings  from  a belief 
in  the  divineness  of  all  life  and  his  best  thoughts  from  the 
ideal  of  a perfect  and  truly  human  society!  ^ 


® Die  Zeit  diinkte  mich  nichtig,  und  das  wahre  Sein  lag  mir  ausser 


554  SOCIAL  FOLCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


Apart  from  Wagner's  music-dramas,  German  literature 
during  the  period  from  the  Revolution  of  1848  to  the  final 
establishment  of  German  unity  has  produced 
little  that  stands  for  the  highest  aims  of  life. 
Not  that  there  has  been  a lack  of  able  writers 
during  this  time.  One  needs  only  to  think  of  such 
names  as  Geibel,  Hebbel,  Otto  Ludwig,  Gustav  Freytag, 
Wilhelm  Jordan,  Schack,  Hamerling,  Scheffel,  Dahn,  Spiel- 
hagen,  Paul  Heyse,  Storm,  Fontane,  Raabe,  Fritz  Reuter, 
Gottfried  Keller,  Anzengruber,  Rosegger,  to  bring  to 
one's  mind  a world  of  sturdy  respectability,  of  earnest 
thought,  of  patriotic  devotion,  of  aesthetic  refinement,  of 
hearty  joyfulness,  of  deepest  feeling,  of  invincible  humour. 
But  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  literature  in  the  decades  pre- 
ceding or  immediately  following  the  Franco-German  war 
had  ceased  to  be  a motive  power  of  highest  national  impor- 
tancec  The  great  movement  for  political  unification  which 
had  reached  its  first  climax  in  the  national  uprising  of  1813, 
the  second  in  the  Revolution  of  1848,  now  pressed  toward 
its  final  crisis.  Not  the  thinker  and  the  poet,  but  the  states- 
man and  the  general  were  now  the  men  most  needed.  The 
hour  had  come  for  king  William  and  his  paladins. 

At  present  we  are  witnessing  another  turning  of  the  tide. 
With  German  unity  accomplished,  with  German  industry 

, and  commerce  successfully  established  in  the 
The  modern  . ^ . 

Storm  and  world’s  market,  with  German  science  setting 

Stress.  methods  of  research  to  all  other  nations,  the 

ideals  of  the  inner  life  are  once  more  beginning  to  assert 
themselves,  and  it  is  clear  that  literature  is  once  more  to 
take  the  lead  in  the  strife  for  social  progress. 

In  more  ways  than  one,  the  intellectual  situation  of  to-day 
resembles  the  intellectual  situation  during  the  seventies  and 

ihrer  Gesetzmassigkeit’’ — words  from  the  Epilogischer  Bericht  to  Der 
Ring  des  Nibelungen  ; Ges.  Schr.  u.  Dicht.  VI,  369. — H.  T.  Finck  in 
his  interesting  book,  Wagner  and  His  Works,  entirely  fails  to  do  jus- 
tice to  Wagner's  dreams  of  social  reform. 


EPILOGUE. 


555 


eighties  of  the  last  century.  The  Storm-and-Stress  agitation, 
which  then  was  at  its  height,  was  the  composite  result  of  a 
number  of  movements,  distinct  from  each  other  in  temper 
and  immediate  purpose,  but  at  one  in  their  ultimate  aim  of 
widening  the  scope  of  individual  life,  of  raising  man  to  the 
stature  of  his  true  self.  Richardson  and  Rousseau,  Diderot 
and  Ossian,  combined  to  produce  The  Sorrows  of  Werther 
and  The  Robbers.  Pietism  and  Rationalism,  sentimentality 
and  self-portrayal,  the  yearning  for  nature  and  the  striving 
for  freedom,  all  rushed  together  into  one  surging  whirlpool 
of  revolt  against  the  existing  social  and  political  order. 

To-day,  as  a hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  the  leading 
note  of  German  literature  is  revolt.  In  the  eighteenth  century 
this  revolt  meant  the  ascendency  of  the  middle  classes  over 
an  hereditary  aristocracy  which  had  ceased  to  be  an  aristo- 
cracy of  the  spirit;  to-day  it  means  the  ascendency  of  the 
working  classes  over  a bourgeoisie  which  has  ceased  to  be  the 
representative  of  the  whole  people.  It  means  now  no  less 
than  it  meant  then  an  upward  movement  in  the  development 
of  the  race,  another  phase  in  the  gradual  extension  of  human 
dignity  and  self-respect;  it  means  a further  step  toward 
the  final  reconciliation  of  individualism  and  collectivism. 

To-day,  as  a hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  the  names  of 
the  men  who  first  gave  life  to  the  new  literature  are  not  the 
names  of  Germans:  the  modern  Rousseau  is  Tolstoi,  and 
the  modern  Diderot  is  Ibsen.  But  to-day  happens  what 
iiappened  then:  the  foreign  pioneers  are  quickly  being  suc- 
ceeded by  German  writers  of  originality  and  power;  and  if, 
perhaps,  no  Goethe  or  Schiller  has  as  yet  come  forth,  the 
nearly  simultaneous  appearance  of  such  works  as  Suder- 
mann’s  Heimat  (1893)  and  Hauptmann’s  Die  Weber  (1892) 
augurs  well  indeed  for  the  future  of  the  German  drama.® 

® For  a comprehensive  account  of  the  recent  dramatic  develop- 
ment cf.  B.  Litzmann,  Das  deutsche  Drafua  in  den  litterarischen 
Bewigungen  der  Gegenwart.  Also  Schonbach’s  Uber  Lesen  u.  Bild~ 
ung,  p.  235  ff.,  and  R.  M.  Meyer’s  Deutsche  Litteratur  des  /p.  Jahr^ 
htniderts. 


556  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


At  no  time,  perhaps,  during  the  present  century  has  Ger- 
man dramatic  literature,  and  German  literature  in  general, 
been  at  so  low  an  ebb  as  it  was  during  the  dec- 
JAhr^ama,‘  which  followed  the  Franco-German  war. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  military  achievements  and 
political  glory  had  crushed  the  finer  emotions  of  the  Ger- 
man heart,  as  if  the  gigantic  struggles  which  had  led  to  the 
establishment  of  national  unity  and  greatness  had  so  ex- 
hausted the  productive  energy  of  the  German  people  that 
there  was  no  strength  left  for  the  cultivation  of  those  ideal 
aspirations  which  give  to  life  its  highest  charm.  With  the 
exception  of  Richard  Wagner,  Germany  has  produced  in  the 
Bismarckian  era  not  a single  poet  or  artist  whose  name 
could  be  mentioned  by  the  side  of  that  of  the  Iron  Chan- 
cellor himself.  And  the  very  years  when  Bismarck's  power 
was  at  its  height,  when  the  destiny  of  Europe  was  held  in 
the  hands  of  German  diplomacy,  were  marked  in  literature 
by  the  supremacy  of  flimsiness  and  insipidity.  The  one  fact 
that  a writer  so  utterly  devoid  both  of  artistic  feeling  and  of 
ideal  aims  as  Paul  Lindau  should  in  those  years  have  been 
able  to  impose  himself  upon  a credulous  public  as  a critic 
of  the  Lessingian  type  is  sufficient  to  show  to  what  a depth 
of  literary  apathy  the  land  of  Schiller  and  Goethe  had  then 
sunk. 

This  was  clearly  an  unnatural  condition.  A people  that 
has  risen  to  leadership  in  nearly  all  the  domains  of  higher 
activity,  a people  which  stands  among  the  very  foremost 
nations  of  the  world  in  politics,  in  science,  in  education,  in 
trade,  in  industry,  in  social  organization,  such  a people  can- 
not in  the  long  run  remain  satisfied  with  a second  place  in 
literature  and  art.  The  same  force  which  impelled  it  to  a 
heightened  and  diversified  activity  in  material  things  and 
in  matters  that  concern  the  intellect,  must  in  the  end  mani- 
fest itself  in  heightening  and  diversifying  the  feeling  and 
the  imagination  also.  For  just  as  in  the  life  of  the  individ- 
ual there  is  an  unbroken  chain  of  action  and  reaction 


EPILOGUE, 


557 


between  the  various  functions  of  mind  or  body,  as  the  ex- 
ercise of  one  muscle  inevitably  brings  into  play  a number 
of  other  muscles  connected  with  it,  as  the  training  of  one’s 
memory  is  impossible  without  the  corresponding  simultane- 
ous training  of  one’s  will,  so  it  is  in  the  life  of  a nation  : 
whatever  stimulus  is  given  to  one  organ  of  national  activity 
it  is  never  given  to  this  organ  alone,  it  is  passed  on  to 
other  organs,  and  sooner  or  later  it  pervades  the  whole 
national  body. 

This  is  what  is  happening  now  in  German  literature. 
German  literature  is  at  last  beginning  to  partake  in  that  uni- 
versal heightening  of  German  national  life  of  which  the 
foundation  of  the  new  empire  thirty  years  ago  was  the  first 
far-shining  signal,  which  has  made  the  German  universities 
a meeting-ground  of  the  best  students  from  all  over  the 
globe,  and  which  has  helped  to  build  the  record-breaking 
flyers  Kaiser  Wilhelm  der  Grosse  ” and  ^‘Deutschland.” 
German  literature  is  at  last  beginning  to  reap  the  fruits  of 
the  seed  that  was  sown  on  the  bloody  battlefields  of  Metz 
and  Sedan  : once  more  is  literature  coming  to  be  something 
more  than  a mere  pastime  or  recreation,  once  more  is  it 
coming  to  be  a matter  of  national  concern  ; once  more  are 
writers  coming  forward  who  feel  that  they  have  a mission 
to  fulfil,  whose  highest  desire  it  is  to  be  interpreters  of  the 
longings  and  aspirations  of  the  people  ; once  more  are 
novels  and  dramas  being  produced  which  arouse  popular 
passion  and  enthusiasm,  because  they  represent,  in  palpable 
and  living  forms,  the  momentous  problems  and  conflicts  of 
the  day. 

Our  whole  age  is  an  age  of  unsolved  problems  and  un- 
settled conflicts.  Everywhere,  all  the  world  over,  there  is 
a violent  clash  between  the  old  and  the  new,  be- 
tween the  classes  and  the  masses,  between 

’ (jerman  life. 

capital  and  labour,  between  autocracy  and  free- 
dom, between  state  and  church,  between  traditional 
creeds  and  personal  convictions.  Nowhere,  however,  is 


558  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

this  conflict  being  waged  with  such  an  intensity,  such 
a deep-rooted  bitterness  as  in  Germany.  Germany  is 
at  present  the  classic  land  of  moral  contrasts.  In  nearly 
every  domain  of  life  the  country  is  divided  into  parties 
bent  on  mutual  annihilation. 

Politically,  the  strife  between  church  and  state,  which  in 
the  seventies  flamed  up  with  such  a sinister  glare,  is  at  present 
smouldering  under  the  ashes.  But  it  would  be  a mistake 
to  think  that  the  passions  which  at  that  time  seemed  to  set 
the  whole  nation  on  fire  had  spent  their  force.  As  long  as 
there  is  on  the  one  hand  a centralized  empire  claiming  ab- 
solute control  over  the  intellectual  and  moral  training  of  all 
its  subjects,  on  the  other  an  infallible  papacy  claiming 
superhuman  authority  and  demanding  unconditional  sub- 
mission to  its  divine  laws,  there  can  be  no  real  and  enduring 
public  peace,  there  can  be  at  best  a temporary  cessation 
of  hostilities,  and  at  any  moment  the  perennial  dispute  be- 
tween king  and  pontiff  may  break  out  again. 

Even  less  veiled  than  this  war  between  the  powers  tem- 
poral and  spiritual  is  the  second  great  conflict  that  threatens 
the  public  peace  of  Germany  : the  conflict  between  mon- 
archy and  democracy.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  is 
the  real  point  at  issue  between  the  socialist  labour  party  and 
the  imperial  government.  On  the  surface  it  is  a question  of 
labour  organization,  of  the  distribution  of  wealth,  of 
strikes  and  wages ; at  bottom  it  is  a question  of  life 
and  death  between  military  absolutism  and  popular  au- 
tonomy. Well  enough  do  the  upholders  of  the  monarchy 
know  that  the  socialist  state  of  the  future  is  a harmless 
Utopia,  a humanitarian  dream  which  would  vanish  into  air 
at  the  first  real  attempt  to  put  it  into  practice.  This  is  not 
what  they  fear.  What  they  do  fear  and  what  they  resist 
with  the  grim  ardour  of  men  attacked  in  the  very  stronghold 
of  their  innermost  convictions  is  the  undermining  of  mili- 
tary authority,  the  shattering  of  the  belief  in  the  royalist 
legend,  the  spread  of  republican  ideas — the  real  dangers  to 


EPILOGUE, 


5S9 


the  monarchy  which  the  socialist  agitation  of  the  last 
twenty-five  years  has  conjured  up.  Hence  the  wholesale 
prosecution  of  socialist  editors,  the  endless  trials  for  lese- 
majesie\  the  organized  efforts  to  suppress  free  thought  by 
means  of  an  approved  theology,  the  ever-repeated  attempts 
to  curtail  the  political  franchise,  measures  which  of  course 
have  no  other  effect  but  to  strengthen  and  cement  the 
ranks  of  the  opposition  and  to  inspire  them  with  a deter- 
mined devotion  to  a cause  which  they  believe  in  the  end  is 
bound  to  win. 

And  the  same  is  true  of  the  attitude  of  the  masses  in  the 
third  great  struggle  which  has  to  be  fought  out  in  the 
twentieth  century  : the  struggle  between  industrialism  and 
humanity.  Nowhere  are  the  lines  between  employer  and 
employed  more  sharply  drawn  than  in  Germany,  nowhere  is 
there  more  of  class  feeling  and  of  class  hatred.  But  this 
very  fact  has  given  to  the  German  labour  movement  a com- 
pactness and  a solidarity  superior  to  that  of  most  other 
countries  ; it  has  imbued  it  with  a firm  belief  in  the  final 
victory  of  right  that  has  something  of  a religious  fervour  ; 
it  has  made  it  a movement  of  an  eminently  educational 
character  ; and  I am  inclined  to  think  that  the  socialist 
workingmen  of  Germany  stand  higher  than  the  workingmen 
of  most  other  countries  in  intellectual  drill,  in  political  dis- 
cipline, and  in  respect  for  the  ideal  concerns  of  life. 

These  are  some  of  the  contradictions  of  public  life  in 
contemporary  Germany.  But  there  are  contradictions  also 
in  the  individual  life  of  the  cultivated  German  of  to-day: 
above  all  the  contradiction  between  the  materialistic  tenden- 
cies of  our  own,  predominantly  scientific  age,  and  the  ideal 
cravings  bequeathed  to  us  by  a past  excelling  in  literary 
and  aesthetic  refinement.  In  no  single  individual  has  this 
contrast  received  a more  striking  embodiment  than  in  that 
strangely  paradoxical  poet-philosopher  whose  rhapsodic, 
half-inspired,  half-crazy  utterances  have  had  such  a daz- 
zling, though  stimulating,  influence  on  the  present  genera- 


560  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN'  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


tion  of  German  writers  and  artists  : I mean  of  course  in 
Friedrich  Nietzsche.  Here  we  see  on  the  one 
le  zsc  e.  hand  a most  delicate  perception  of  the  finest 
operations  of  the  mind,  a penetrating  analysis  of  the  most 
tender  instincts  and  longings  of  the  human  soul,  a revelling 
in  artistic  enjoyment,  a glorification  of  the  most  sublimated 
culture — and  on  the  other  hand,  a savage  delight  in  the 
underlying  selfishness  and  brutality  of  all  life,  a ruthless 
exaltation  of  might  over  right,  a fierce  contempt  for  the 
Christian  virtues  of  meekness  and  faith,  an  hysterical  apo- 
theosis of  the  blond  beast ''  and  of  cavalier  morality.  No 
wonder  that  Nietzsche  himself  in  this  whirlpool  of  con- 
flicting emotions  should  have  lost  his  own  balance,  that  the 
night  of  insanity  should  have  closed  in  upon  him  and  ex- 
tinguished even  before  his  bodily  death  the  lights  of  that 
exultant  life  which  he  loved  so  much. 

I have  laid  emphasis  on  the  multitude  of  moral  conflicts 
that  beset  contemporary  Germany,  not  from  any  desire  to 
paint  gloom,  but,  on  the  contrary,  because  I think  that 
from  the  very  friction  of  these  opposing  tendencies  there 
has  arisen  the  new  life  in  art  and  literature,  and  espe- 
ciMly  in  dramatic  literature,  of  which  I spoke  before. 
Novalis  has  defined  individual  genius  as  a plurality  of 
personalities  combined  in  one.  Similarly,  one  might  say 
that  the  German  people  is  at  present  giving  signs  of  dra- 
matic genius,  because  it  contains  such  a variety  of  opposing 
ideals,  because  in  Wildenbruch,  in  Sudermann,  in  Haupt- 
mann, in  Halbe  these  opposing  ideals  clash  together  and 
are  welded  by  them  into  something  new,  into  a work  of  art. 

I doubt  whether  there  exists  in  any  language  a poetic  pro- 
duction which  represents  the  perennial  struggle  between  the 
powers  temporal  and  spiritual  in  as  striking  and  picturesque 
a manner  as  the  drama  which  unquestionably  marks  the 
climax  of  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch’s  artistic  career  : King 
Henry  (1895).  This  drama  is  a poetic  reflex,  as  it  were,  of 
Bismarck’s  parliamentary  warfare  with  the  Romish  Church, 


EPILOGUE.  561 

and  throughout  its  scenes,  filled  as  they  are  with  the  clatter 

of  mediaeval  arms  and  the  popular  stir  of  medi-  , 

^ ^ Wildenbrncn’s 

aeval  town  halls,  we  seem  to  hear  an  echo  of  “Konig  Hein- 

those  haughty  and  defiant  words  of  the  founder 
of  German  unity:  “ Nach  Canossa  gehen  wir  nicht!  ” 

Wildenbruch  is  above  all  a playwright.  He  is  fiery, 
passionate,  brilliant,  rhetorical.  He  has  constantly  the 
stage  in  mind.  He  knows  how  to  make  the  action  swell 
on  irresistibly  to  a grand  climax.  He  leaps,  as  it  were, 
from  catastrophe  to  catastrophe,  leaving  it  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  hearers  to  make  its  way  after  him  through  the 
dark  glens  and  ravines  that  lead  up  to  these  shining  moun- 
tain peaks.  All  these  qualities,  characteristic  of  Wilden- 
bruch’s  art,  are  particularly  characteristic  of  the  manner  in 
which  he,  in  this  drama,  represents  the  historic  struggle  be- 
tween King  Henry  IV.  and  Pope  Gregory  VII.  as  a tragic 
conflict  between  two  principles,  both  exalted,  both  true, 
but  absolutely  incompatible  with  each  other,  and  therefore 
bent  on  mutual  destruction.  That  he  should  have  suc- 
ceeded in  arousing  in  us  at  the  same  time  genuinely  human 
sympathies,  in  making  us  feel  that  it  is  after  all  the  indi- 
vidual heart  and  the  individual  brain  which  make  the 
destinies  of  nations,  this  is  saying  a good  deal,  but  it  is 
not,  I think,  saying  too  much. 

In  a prelude  we  see  Henry  as  a boy,  an  impetuous,  im- 
perious youth,  smarting  under  the  discipline  of  a fanati- 
cally religious  mother,  burning  with  the  desire  to  equal  the 
fame  of  his  heroic  father,  at  last  thrust  into  the  prison  walls 
of  monastic  asceticism  under  the  tutorship  of  Anno,  arch- 
bishop of  Cologne. — At  the  beginning  of  the  drama  itself 
he  appears  as  King,  in  the  acme  of  his  power.  He  has 
subdued  the  rebellious  Saxons;  he  enters  triumphantly  his 
faithful  Worms;  he  is  received  by  the  citizens  as  the  pro- 
tector of  civil  freedom  against  princely  tyranny  and  clerical 
arrogance;  all  Germany  seems  to  rise  in  a grand  ovation 
to  her  beloved  leader.  Intoxicated  by  his  success,  he 


562  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

resents  all  the  more  deeply  the  paternal  admonitions  of 
Pope  Gregory  about  the  looseness  of  his  private  life  which 
are  just  then  conveyed  to  him;  he  insists  on  being  crowned 
Emperor  at  once;  and,  when  this  request  is  not  complied 
with,  he  allows  himself  to  be  carried  away  by  his  indomi- 
table wrath,  he  forces  his  bishops  into  that  insulting  letter 
by  which  Gregory  is  declared  a usurper,  a felon,  a blas- 
phemer, to  be  driven  out  from  the  sanctuary  of  the  Church 
which  he  pollutes  by  his  presence. 

And  now  we  are  introduced  to  the  other  great  character 
of  the  drama,  to  the  opposite  of  this  fiery,  unmanageable 
young  ruler,  to  Gregory,  the  self-possessed  and  self-abasing 
priest,  the  man  in  whose  soul  there  seems  to  be  no  room  for 
any  passion  except  the  passion  for  the  cause  of  the  Church, 
for  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  over  the  flesh,  and  who  never- 
theless harbours  in  his  breast,  unknown  to  himself,  the  most 
consuming  ambition  and  the  most  colossal  egotism.  We 
see  him  sitting  in  cathedra  in  the  basilica  of  Santa  Maria 
Maggiore.  Suppliants  and  criminals  are  brought  before 
him.  A Flemish  count,  who  has  committed  murder,  and 
who  has  in  vain  fled  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Europe  in  quest  of  delivery  from  the  anguish  of  his  tor- 
mented conscience,  beseeches  the  Pope  to  put  an  end  to  his 
wretched  life;  Gregory,  instead,  holds  out  to  him  the  hope 
of  salvation  through  joining  a crusade.  A Roman  noble, 
who  in  robber-knight  fashion  has  made  an  assault  upon  the 
Pope,  and  who  by  the  clergy  and  the  people  has  been  con- 
demned to  death  for  this  crime,  is  pardoned  by  Gregory — 
^‘for  he  has  sinned,  not  against  the  Church,  the  holy  one, 
but  against  Gregory,  a poor,  feeble  mortal.”  A lay  brother 
of  St.  Peter's,  who,  disguised  as  priest,  has  taken  money 
from  foreign  pilgrims  for  reading  mass  to  them,  and  who  by 
the  clergy  and  the  people  has  been  sentenced  to  a fine  and 
exile,  is  ordered  by  Gregory  to  be  thrown  into  the  Tiber — 
‘‘  for  he  has  sinned  against  the  Church,  he  has  cheated 
human  souls  of  their  salvation.” 


EPILOGUE. 


563 


These  scenes  have  just  passed  before  our  eyes  when  the 
messengers  of  King  Henry,  bearing  the  letter  of  libel  and 
vilification,  are*  admitted.  Gregory  is  the  only  one  who  in 
the  tumult  that  follows  its  reading  remains  absolutely  calm; 
he  protects  the  messenger  himself  against  the  rage  of  the 
Romans;  he  forgives  Henry,  the  man,  for  what  he  has  said 
against  Gregory,  the  man. 

“For  what  he  has  said  against  the  head  of  the  Holy  Church, 
for  that  let  Henry  be  cursed  ! I forbid  all  Christians  to  serve 
thee  as  a King,  I release  them  from  the  oath  that  they  have  sworn 
thee.  Thou,  darkness  revolting  against  light,  return  to  chaos  ! 
Thou,  wave  revolting  against  the  ocean,  return  to  naught  ! No 
bell  shall  be  sounded  in  the  city  where  Henry  dwells,  no  church 
be  opened,  no  sacrament  be  administered.  Where  Henry  dwells, 
death  shall  dwell  ! Let  my  legates  go  forth  and  announce  my 
message  to  the  world  ! ” 

The  climax  of  the  whole  drama  is,  as  it  should  be,  the 
Canossa  catastrophe.  It  is  here  that  Gregory,  the  victor 
in  the  political  game,  succumbs  morally  ; that  Henry,  the 
vanquished,  rises  in  his  native  greatness.  It  is  here  that 
Gregory,  with  all  his  soaring  idealism,  reveals  himself  as  an 
inhuman  monster  ; that  Henry,  with  all  his  faults  and  frail- 
ties, arouses  to  the  full  the  sympathy  which  we  cannot  help 
feeling  for  a bravely  struggling  man. 

The  excommunication  of  Henry  has  plunged  Germany 
into  civil  war.  A rival  king,  Rudolf  of  Swabia,  has  been 
proclaimed.  He  and  the  chiefs  of  his  party  have  come  to 
Canossa  to  obtain  the  papal  sanction  for  their  revolt. 
Gregory  clearly  sees  that  Rudolf  is  nothing  but  a figure- 
head, a mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  fanatic  conspirators, 
totally  unfit  to  rule  an  empire.  He  clearly  feels  it  his  duty 
to  discountenance  this  revolt,  to  restore  peace  to  Ger- 
many by  making  his  peace  with  Henry.  But  the  demon  of 
ambition  lurking  in  his  breast  beguiles  him  with  a vision  of 
world-dominion  : he,  the  servant  of  the  servants  of  God, 
shall  be  the  arbiter  of  Europe  ; he,  the  plebeian,  shall  see 
the  crowns  of  kings  roll  before  him  in  the  dust.  He  does 


564  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

not  discountenance  Rudolf  and  his  set  ; and  when  Henry 
appears  before  the  castle,  broken  and  humiliated,  asking  for 
absolution  from  the  ban,  Gregory  remains  unmoved.  For 
three  days  and  nights  the  King  stands  before  the  gate  in 
ice  and  snow ; for  three  days  and  nights  the  Pope  sits  in 
his  chair,  speechless,  sleepless,  refusing  to  eat  or  drink.  At 
last,  the  intercession  of  Henry's  mother,  who,  herself  in  the 
shadow  of  death,  has  come  to  pray  for  her  son's  salvation, 
softens  Gregory’s  heart : he  admits  Henry  to  his  presence. 
Henry  appears,  a king  even  in  his  misery.  He  bends  his 
knee  before  the  Pope,  he  confesses  his  guilt,  he  acknowl- 
edges the  justice  of  his  punishment.  The  reconciliation  is 
brought  about.  Just  then  Henry's  glance  falls  upon  Rudolf 
and  his  followers  standing  in  the  background.  He  greets 
them  as  friends,  thinking  that  they  have  come  to  renew  their 
allegiance  to  him.  But  they  rudely  repulse  him,  and  boast 
of  the  Pope’s  intention  to  acknowledge  Rudolf  as  King. 
And  Gregory  does  not  contradict  them.  With  fearful  sud- 
denness Henry  sees  what  a shameful  game  has  been  played 
with  him  ; and  yet  he  masters  himself,  he  makes  one  last 
appeal  to  whatever  there  is  of  true  feeling  in  his  opponent : 

God,  help  me  against  myself!  Christ,  Saviour,  who  wast 
thyself  a king  among  the  heavenly  host  and  didst  bow  thy  neck 
under  the  scourge,  help  me  against  myself  1 {^He  turns  abruptly 
toward  Gregory,)  Once  before  I knelt  before  thee — I did  it  for 
myself.  {He  falls  down  on  his  knees,)  Here,  a second  time,  I lie 
before  thee,  for  Germany  lie  I here  ! Break  thy  silence  ! Thy 
silence  is  the  coffin  in  which  the  happiness  of  Germany  is 
entombed  1 If  thou  didst  know  how  unhappy  this  Germany  is, 
thou  wouldst  speak; — speak!  Thou,  ordained  by  God  to  bring 
peace  to  the  world,  let  me  take  peace  with  me  on  my  way  to  Ger- 
many, not  war,  not  howling  civil  war  !’* 

And  Gregory  remains  silent  ! From  here  on  to  the  end 
of  the  drama  there  is  nothing  but  revenge,  and  revenge  on 
revenge.  And  this  work  of  destruction  does  not  stop  until 
both  Gregory  and  Henry  have  breathed  their  last.  Both 
men  die  in  defeat  and  desolation  ; both  die  inwardly  un- 


EPILOGUE. 


565 


broken — Gregory  trusting  in  the  future  triumph  of  the 
Church,  Henry  trusting  in  the  indestructible  vitality  of  the 
German  people. 

One  could  not  well  conceive  of  a more  striking  artistic 
contrast  than  that  which  exists  between  this  sonorous, 
brilliant,  and  (one  must  confess  it)  somewhat  melodramatic 
tragedy  of  Wildenbruch’s  and  a number  of  dramas  by 
Sudermann,  Hauptmann,  and  Halbe  which  directly  or  indi- 
rectly deal  with  those  other  conflicts  of  modern  German 
life  of  which  I have  spoken  before  : the  struggle  between 
monarchy  and  democracy,  between  society  and  the  indi- 
vidual, between  the  Church  and  free  thought,  between 
industrialism  and  humanity,  between  materialism  and  ideal- 
ism. Wildenbruch  stands  alone  among  contemporary  Ger- 
man dramatists  as  a stanch  advocate  of  the  ideals  of  the 
past.  His  is  essentially  a world  of  chivalry.  He  is  pre- 
eminently a believer,  a believer  in  the  reality  of  revealed 
truths,  in  the  sacredness  of  existing  conditions,  in  the 
beauty  and  nobility  of  monarchical  institutions,  in  the 
exalted  mission  of  the  Hohenzollern  dynasty,  and  in  his 
own  mission  to  proclaim  it.  His  ideal  is  the  blond  German 
youth,  firm  and  faithful,  pure  and  pious,  ready  to  lay  down 
his  life  in  the  service  of  his  King — the  noble  youth  whom 
we  know  from  the  Watch  on  the  Rhine  and  from  Emperor 
William’s  speeches.  It  is  hard  to  resist  the  unsophisticated 
ardour  of  his  aristocratic  convictions,  the  naive  optimism  of 
his  warlike  patriotism.  Yet  one  cannot  help  feeling  that 
he  has  been  too  lightly  touched  by  the  wave  of  modern 
doubt  and  social  discontent. 

Just  here  is  the  source  from  which  his  three  foremost 
competitors — Sudermann,  Hauptmann,  and  Halbe — derive 
their  inspiration  and  strength.  They  are  doubters  and 
seekers  ; they  are  steeped  in  Nietzsche  and  Ibsen  ; they 
sympathize  with  the  revolt  of  the  masses  against  aristocratic 
and  plutocratic  class  rule,  with  the  rebellion  of  the  indi- 
vidual against  the  soulless  conventions  of  society  and  the 


566  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAFT  LITERATURE. 


obsolete  formulas  of  the  church  ; they  incline  to  pessimism 
and  sarcasm  ; it  is  in  their  writings  that  we  hear  the  minor 
key  and  the  deeper  discords  of  modern  life. 

Of  the  three,  Halbe  seems  to  me  the  one  who  gives  least 
promise  of  real  greatness.  He  is  an  excellent  observer,  he 
sees  clearly  the  symptoms  of  social  unrest  that  surround  us, 
he  feels  distinctly  the  conflict  which  is  going  on  in  every 
one  of  us  between  the  traditions  of  the  past  and  the  ideals 
of  the  future  ; but  he  lacks  the  strength  of  character  and 
the  depth  of  conviction  which  would  enable  him  to  take  a 
definite  stand  in  this  conflict.  He  vacillates  between  ex- 
treme individualism  and  moral  dissoluteness  on  the  one 
hand  and  sentimental  cravings  for  the  peace  and  security 
of  traditional  morality  on  the  other.  He  never  gets  beyond 
impulses,  he  never  opens  up  a new  world  to  us,  he  never 
leads  us  into  the  regions  of  moral  freedom. 

There  is  no  better  illustration  of  this  than  his  most  ambi- 
tious production — Mother  Earth  (1895),  a drama  which  has 
the  undoubted  merit  of  dealing  with  a distinctly  modern 
situation,  the  clash  between  the  hereditary,  patriarchal,  in- 
stinctive views  of  life,  resting  on  the  belief  in  the  accepted 
order  of  things,  and  the  new  democratic  ideas,  born  of  the 
restlessness  of  industrial  progress  and  competition. 

Paul  Warkentin,  the  son  of  an  East-Elbian  country 

„ „ , gentleman  (all  these  modernest  Germans  are 

Hall)e’s  ^ . \ 

‘•Mutter  East-Elbians),  became  acquainted,  while  study- 
Erde.”  j^g  at  Berlin,  with  a young  woman  of  superior 

intellect  and  will  power,  Hella  Bernhardy  by  name.  The 
daughter  of  a University  professor,  she  had  from  childhood 
on  led  a city  life,  and  being  of  an  almost  masculine  bent  of 
mind,  had  early  become  absorbed  in  the  problems  of  the 
day,  particularly  in  the  woman  movement.  To  Paul,  the 
dreamy,  undeveloped  country  boy,  she  opened  a new  world 
of  ideas ; and  the  natural  consequence  was  their  engage- 
ment and  subsequent  marriage.  The  latter,  however,  was 
not  accomplished  without  a violent  catastrophe.  For  Paul's 


EPILOGUE. 


567 


father,  who  naturally  wished  his  son  to  be  his  successor  in 
the  management  of  the  estate,  insisted  on  his  marrying  one 
of  the  girls  of  the  neighbourhood,  Antoinette,  a playmate  of 
Paul’s  in  his  country-school  days,  to  whom  he  had  been  as 
much  as  engaged  when  he  left  for  the  University.  And 
when  Paul  refused  both  to  marry  Antoinette  and  to  assume 
the  management  of  the  estate,  the  irascible  old  gentleman 
forbade  him  his  house. 

All  this  has  happened  some  ten  years  ago.  Since  then 
Paul  and  his  wife  have  plunged  into  the  exciting  life  of 
Berlin  journalism,  they  have  been  editing  a paper  bearing  the 
suggestive  name  of  ^Women’s  Rights,'  and,  if  we  may  trust 
Hella’s  own  statements,  have  played  a considerable  part  in 
radical  politics.  Now  the  father  has  suddenly  died;  and  for 
the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  Paul  re-enters  the  house  of 
his  ancestors,  to  pay  the  last  homage  to  the  departed  one. 
Hella  accompanies  him,  although  she  hates  to  leave  the  city 
and  begrudges  the  delay  which  this  trip  will  cause  in  the 
printing  of  her  next  editorial  in  ‘Women’s  Rights.’  How- 
ever, to  recompense  herself  for  this  intellectual  sacrifice, 
she  has  brought  with  her  a young  admirer  of  hers,  who  will 
help  her  reading  proof  while  Paul  is  busy  with  the  funeral 
arrangements  or  receives  visits  of  condolence!  Paul,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  the  first  step  over  the  threshold  of  his  old 
home  feels  himself  drawn  back  into  the  spell  of  the  long- 
neglected  but  ever-precious  recollections  of  his  youth.  And 
so  it  is  not  surprising  that  husband  and  wife  do  not  har- 
monize as  well  in  these  new,  quiet  surroundings  as  they 
seemed  to  do  in  the  bustling  stir  of  the  capital.  In  fact^ 
they  are  at  odds  in  small  things  as  well  as  great.  Paul  is 
deeply  touched  at  the  sight  of  the  parlour  chandelier  lit  in 
his  honour  by  the  old  maiden  aunt,  his  foster  mother; — Hella 
thinks  such  sentimentality  ridiculous.  Paul  comes  in,  cov- 
ered with  snow  and  glowing  with  delight  over  a ride  he  has 
taken  on  horseback  through  the  wintry  landscape,  the  first 
one  for  ten  years  : “ You  don’t  know  what  it  is  to  be  a man 


$68  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

until  you  feel  a horse  under  you  ! Hella  wishes  herself 
to  be  back  at  her  desk  in  the  editor’s  office.  And  when 
Hella  reminds  her  husband  of  the  days  when  they  were 
still  battling  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  good  fight  for  the 
betterment  of  the  race,  he  breaks  out : Fight  for  the  better- 

ment of  the  race  ? You  had  better  speak  of  the  dissipation  of 
my  energies,  the  benumbing  of  my  natural  instincts,  the 
bankruptcy  of  my  moral  life — that  is  what  has  been  the 
result  of  this  artificial  existence  of  ours,  this  continual 
restlessness,  this  bookishness,  these  airy  abstractions,  this 
casting  loose  from  the  soil  where  our  true  strength  is 
rooted.” 

It  is  after  one  of  these  scenes  (needless  to  say!)  that 
Antoinette,  the  love  of  Paul’s  boyhood,  appears.  After 
having  been  jilted  by  Paul,  the  impetuous  girl  out  of  sheer 
despair  had  thrown  herself  away  on  the  first  man  that  asked 
for  her  hand,  a worthless,  rollicking,  dissipated  Junker  of 
the  neighbourhood  ; and  since  then  she  has  been  leading  a 
wretched  and  ignominious  life,  hating  herself,  her  husband, 
the  world.  Now  she  sees  Paul  again,  and  his  face  at  once 
reveals  to  her  his  history.  ‘‘  One  consolation  is  left  me,” 
she  tells  him  : ‘‘you  have  made  me  unhappy;  but  you  are 
unhappy  too!  And  to  enjoy  that  I am  here  ! ” Paul,  on  his 
part,  is  transfixed.  All  his  ideals  of  an  active  and  useful 
life,  all  the  traditions  of  his  home  with  its  friendly  human 
intercourse,  its  naturalness,  its  honesty  and  soundness, 
seem  to  him  to  have  taken  form  in  this  daughter  of  his  own 
native  soil,  this  superb,  beautiful  woman,  all  the  more 
beautiful  to  him  for  her  grief.  For  she  is  grieving  for  him! 
She  might  have  been  his!  And  he  has  thrown  her  away,  to 
attach  himself  to  a mere  shadow,  to  a sexless  being  in  whose 
veins  there  flows  no  blood  and  whose  brain  is  thinking 
thoughts  that  have  no  meaning  for  him! 

Up  to  this  point  the  action  of  the  play  is  perfectly  con- 
sistent, in  a way  even  fascinating.  For  Halbe  is  a master  of 
those  little  illuminating  touches  which  bring  out  with  life- 


EPILOGUE. 


569 


like  energy  the  great  contrast  that  pervades  the  whole 
drama.  But  now  we  have  arrived  at  the  crucial  point  of  the 
plot.  What  is  Paul  to  do  ? Is  he  to  leave  Hella  and  re- 
turn to  his  first  love  ? Or  is  he  to  remain  faithful  to  his 
marital  vow  and  suppress  his  instinctive  longings  ? Either 
solution,  it  seems  to  me,  would  have  been  artistically  possi- 
ble, and  to  a degree  even  satisfactory.  For  Hella  appears 
from  the  very  first  so  entirely  devoid  not  only  of  womanly 
grace,  but  of  w'omanly  feeling  also,  so  utterly  incapable  of 
even  understanding  her  wifely  duties,  that  one  would  greet 
Paul’s  deserting  her  for  Antoinette  almost  with  joy,  savage 
though  this  joy  might  be.  It  would  be  a return  to  Nature,  to 
undefiled,  sensuous,  exuberant  Nature;  it  would  be  violence, 
but  it  would  be  violence  that  overturns  a false,  a vicious 
order  of  things,  that  sets  things  into  their  right  relations. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  Paul  and  Antoinette  were  to  renounce 
each  other,  this  too  would  be  in  a way  a satisfactory  ending. 
It  would  be  a moral  victory,  a victory  of  duty  over  instinct. 
Both  Paul  and  Antoinette  would  return  to  their  daily  tasks, 
enriched  and  strengthened  by  the  rapturous  feelings  which 
the  assurance  of  their  spiritual  inseparableness  has  brought 
them.  And  both  would  find  ample  opportunity  for  making 
humanity  reap  the  fruits  of  their  bitter  experience — Paul 
by  devoting  himself  with  a higher  heart  and  a nobler  pur- 
pose to  the  cause  for  which  he  has  been  working  these  last 
ten  years  ; Antoinette  by  giving  herself  to  that  most  wom- 
anly of  occupations,  the  healing  of  wounds  and  the  relieving 
of  distress. 

Halbe  has  chosen  to  follow  neither  of  these  two  lines  of 
thought.  Instead,  he  makes  the  two  lovers  go  hand  in 
hand  into  death,  ‘‘  return  to  Mother  Earth  ” as  they  say 
themselves.  This  seems  to  me,  even  apart  from  the  melo- 
dramatic manner  in  which  it  is  brought  about,  an  utterly 
indefensible  ending  of  the  play.  For  it  is  in  vain  that 
Halbe  tries  to  justify  it  by  Hella’s  unwillingness  to  relieve 
her  husband  from  his  vows.  Its  true  reason  (not  justifica- 


570  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

tion)  lies  in  the  fact  that  Halbe  is  given  over  to  a hopeless 
fatalism  which  makes  him  shrink  from  any  kind  of  free 
moral  decision.  To  him  life  seems  to  be  nothing  but  a 
series  of  impressions;  nowhere  is  there  a suggestion  in  him  of 
a manly  grappling  with  outward  circumstance  ; nowhere 
does  he  rise  above  conditions  ; and  even  where  he  preaches 
revolt  against  established  evils,  as  in  his  Icedriftings  (1892) 
and  Youth  (1893),  this  very  revolt  is  nothing  but  disguised 
self-indulgence  and  self-gratification. 

It  is  just  here  that  the  vast  superiority  of  Sudermann  and 
Hauptmann  over  Halbe  shows  itself  ; it  is  the  deep  moral 
earnestness,  the  holy  zeal  for  truth,  the  passionate  longing 
for  purity  of  thought  and  life,  the  intense  sympathy  with 
human  joys  and  sufferings  which  give  even  to  their  darkest 
and  seemingly  hopeless  pictures  of  social  distress  and  rot- 
tenness a glow  of  that  enthusiasm  which  makes  us  see  a 
new  heaven  and  a new  earth. 

What  could  be  gloomier  or  more  abject  than  the  awful 
scenes  of  popular  misery  and  degradation  that 
Hauptmann.  rolled  up  before  us  in  Hauptmann’s  The 

Weavers  (1892)  ? Yet  never  has  there  been  produced  a 
work  of  art  which  appealed  more  strongly  to  our  highest 
moral  instincts.  Never  has  poetry  lifted  her  voice  more 
solemnly  for  justice  and  right  ; never  has  she  appeared  more 
truly  as  a messenger  from  above,  as  an  angel  of  divine 
wrath,  as  a prophetess  of  eternal  judgments.  What  could 
be  more  oppressive  and  excruciating  than  the  mental 
agonies  portrayed  in  the  same  author’s  Lonely  People  (1891) 
— agonies  of  souls  blindly  struggling  for  freedom  and  light, 
craving  for  a life  in  the  spirit,  for  completeness  of  exist- 
ence, revelling  in  the  thought  of  a new,  all-embracing  reli- 
gion, but  totally  unable  to  cope  with  existing  conditions, 
and  therefore  ground  down  under  the  wheels  of  inexorable 
reality  ? Yet  I doubt  whether  there  are  many  works  of  lit- 
erature that  preach  more  forcibly  the  necessity  of  self-dis- 
cipline, that  impress  us  more  deeply  with  the  beauty  of 


EPILOGUE, 


571 


simple  right-mindedness,  or  that  glorify  more  truthfully  a 
brave  aggressive  idealism. 

Sudermann’s  artistic  temper  is  diametrically  opposed  to 
that  of  Hauptmann.  Hauptmann  is  lyrical, 

Sudermann  is  rhetorical  ; Hauptmann  is  the 
greater  poet,  Sudermann  is  the  greater  dramatist ; Haupt- 
mann is  a strange  combination  of  sublime  visions  and  cruel 
disenchantments,  of  fantastic  mysticism  and  impression- 
ist realism,  of  pantheistic  ideals  and  a hidden  longing  for 
the  lost  belief  of  childhood ; Sudermann  is  absolutely 
straightforward,  there  are  no  mysterious  recesses  in  him, 
he  is  a single-minded  champion  of  intellectual  freedom  and 
unhampered  individuality.  Yet,  in  spite  of  these  differ- 
ences in  the  artistic  temper  of  the  two  men,  the  moral  effect 
of  Sudermann’s  dramas  is  very  similar  to  that  of  Haupt- 
mann’s. Take  such  a play  as  Sodom's  Ruin  (1891),  with 
its  lurid  descriptions  of  baseness,  dissoluteness,  and  de- 
bauchery. The  effect  of  this  drama  is  not  debasing  or 
enervating,  as  is  the  case  with  most  of  Zola’s  productions 
of  a similar  character.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  stimulating 
and  stirring  in  the  highest  degree.  It  affects  us  as  a for- 
midable arraignment  of  social  conditions  which  it  is  for  us 
to  set  right  ; like  Schiller’s  youthful  dramas  it  fills  us  with 
moral  indignation  ; it  inspires  us  with  a solemn  determina- 
tion to  put  our  hand  to  the  plough  which  is  to  rake  up  the 
barren  field  of  humanity  and  open  it  to  the  wholesome  influx 
of  light  and  air.  Or  take  the  most  widely  known  of  Suder- 
mann’s earlier  works,  Heimat  (1893),  or  as  it  is  called  in 
England  and  America  ; Magda,  What  gives  to  this  drama 
its  distinguishing  feature  and  its  abiding  value,  is  that  here 
we  have  not  merely  a domestic  tragedy  of  the  order  of  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.,  not  merely  a breaking  loose  from 
family  ties  that  have  become  intolerable,  not  merely  a 
revolt  against  a paternal  authority  which  stifles  individual 
life,  but,  beside  and  above  all  this,  an  ever-present  sense  of 


572  SOCIAL  FOJ^CES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 


the  sacredness  of  personal  obligations  and  a recognition  of 
the  supreme  duty  of  faithfulness  to  one’s  higher  self. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  surprising  that  these  two  men,  Haupt- 
mann and  Sudermann,  should  have  come  to  be  acknowl- 
edged as  the  real  leaders  in  the  new  literary  movement  of 
Germany.  From  the  very  first  they  have  given  a voice 
to  the  hopes,  longings,  and  perplexities  bound  up  with 
the  essentially  modern  problems  of  modern  life  ; and 
nearly  every  new  work  of  theirs  has  marked  a step  for- 
ward, has  brought  them  nearer  to  that  comprehensive- 
ness of  view  from  which  the  conflicts  of  existence  appear 
not  any  more  as  irreconcilable  and  permanent,  but  as 
fleeting  discords  dissolving  into  the  strains  of  the  world’s 
universal  symphony,  thereby  increasing  its  volume  and 
heightening  its  beauty.  It  is  a matter  for  genuine  rejoicing 
that  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  should  have  brought 
us  at  least  one  work  from  each  of  these  men  in  which  this 
note  of  the  universally  human  is  heard  with  such  a dis- 
tinctness as  to  bring  back  to  our  minds  the  classic  era  of 
eighteenth-century  culture  : I mean  Hauptmann’s  Sunken 
Bell  (1896)  and  Sudermann’s  John  ihe  Baptist  (1898). 
With  a brief  consideration  of  these  two  dramas  this  epilogue 
may  be  brought  to  a close. 

The  Sunken  Bell  is  a fairy  drama,  a fantastic  vision, 
4,^.^  transporting  us  into  lonely  forests  haunted  by 

versunkene  elfs  and  water-sprites,  and  strangely  illumined 
aiocke.”  |3y  flicker  of  swarming  glow-worms.  But  in 
these  weird  surroundings  and  among  these  fanciful  hap- 
penings we  soon  are  brought  face  to  face  with  scenes  that 
reveal  the  most  fundamental  passions  and  longings  of  the 
human  heart. 

The  time  of  the  action  is  somewhere  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  principal  character  is  a figure  belonging  to  the  race  of 
Faust,  Manfred,  and  Brand  : Meister  Heinrich,  a bell- 
founder  in  a lonely  village  of  the  Riesengebirge.  It  is 
evidently  not  long  since  Christianity  made  its  way  into 


EPILOGUE. 


573 


these  remote  regions,  for  we  hear  that  the  mountain  elfs 
are  disgusted  with  the  unaccustomed  sight  of  church-build- 
ing going  on  in  the  midst  of  their  retreats,  and  still  more 
with  the  unaccustomed  sound  of  the  church  bells  ringing 
through  the  peace  of  the  forests.  Just  now  one  of  these 
malicious  spirits  has  seized  the  opportunity  of  venting  his 
spite.  He  has  lain  in  wait  when  a bell  wrought  by  Master 
Henry  and  destined  for  a chapel  on  the  mountain  summit 
was  being  carted  up  the  hill ; he  has  broken  the  wheel  of 
the  truck,  and  has  hurled  the  bell  and  its  maker  down  into 
the  lake.  Here  is  the  beginning  of  the  action.  Henry, 
rallying,  but  as  yet  hardly  conscious  of  his  steps,  gropes  his 
way  upward  again,  and  wanders  about  in  aimless  despair 
through  the  rocky  wilderness.  Finally  he  sinks  down  ex- 
hausted. His  cries  of  agony  have  been  overheard  by  Rau- 
tendelein,  a strange  mixture  of  elf  and  maiden;  and  for  the 
first  time  there  has  been  awakened  in  her  breast  the  dim 
feeling  of  a higher  life  and  the  blind  desire  to  win  it.  So, 
when  the  villagers  come  to  carry  Henry’s  nearly  lifeless 
body  back  to  the  valley,  Rautendelein  follows  them,  deter- 
mined to  see  and  to  know  the  land  of  men.’*  Disguised 
as  a servant,  she  enters  the  house  where  Henry,  attended 
by  his  faithful  wife,  lies  at  the  point  of  death.  He  is  de- 
lirious. His  life  seems  to  him  a failure;  the  comforting 
words  of  his  wife  sound  to  him  like  mockery;  he  persuades 
himself  that  she  has  no  conception  of  what  it  is  to  feel  the 
creative  impulse  and  to  have  it  checked  by  brutal  fate;  he 
is  sure  that  she  does  not  understand  him,  that  nobody 
understands  him;  he  curses  his  work;  he  wishes  to  die.  At 
this  moment  Rautendelein  appears,  and  the  sight  of  this 
unbroken  youthful  life  brings  back  to  him  his  own  youthful 
aspirations.  It  is  as  though  Nature  herself  had  touched 
him  and  renewed  his  strength,  as  though  she  beckoned  him 
to  throw  away  the  commonplace  cares  and  duties  of  ordi- 
nary social  existence  and  to  follow  him  to  the  heights  of  a 
free,  unfettered,  creative  activity.  He  cannot  resist.  The 


574  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

supreme  desire  for  unhampered  exercise  of  his  faculties 
restores  his  health;  the  delirious  despondency  leaves  him; 
he  is  himself  again. 

When  the  scene  changes,  Rautendelein  has  led  him  back 
into  the  mountains.  She  now  appears  as  his  inspiring 
genius.  He  is  in  the  fulness  of  his  powers;  he  is  raised 
above  the  petty  conflict  of  good  and  evil.  He  has  won 
control  over  the  spirits  that  dwell  in  rock  and  cavern;  with 
their  help  he  is  creating  a wonder-work  of  art,  a temple 
structure  on  highest  mountain  peak  whose  melodious  chime 
is  to  call  free  humanity  to  the  festival  of  universal  brother- 
hood. Wrapt  up  in  these  ecstatic  visions  he  has  entirely 
lost  sight  of  his  former  life.  He  seems  not  to  know  that 
once  he  had  a loving  wife  and  children.  He  scorns  the 
friendly  warnings  of  the  village  priest,  who  ventures  into  his 
enchanted  wilderness  in  order  to  save  his  soul.  He  defies 
the  onslaught  of  the  peasants  who  attempt  to  storm  his 
fastness  in  order  to  annihilate  the  godless  blasphemer.  He 
quiets  occasional  pangs  of  conscience  by  renewed  feverish 
work;  only  at  night  he  lies  restless  and  is  visited  by  fearful 
dreams.  More  and  more,  however,  these  evil  forebodings 
get  the  better  of  him.  Again  and  again  he  hears  a strange 
sound  that  seems  to  draw  him  downward,  he  recognises  in 
it  the  tolling  of  the  bell  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  moun- 
tain lake.  What  causes  the  bell  to  give  the  sound  ? Who 
is  that  pale,  ghastly  figure  floating  toward  it  and  striking  its 
tongue  ? And  who  are  these  shadowy  forms  of  little  chil- 
dren, coming  slowly  and  sadly  toward  him,  and  carrying 
with  great  effort  a heavily  filled  urn  ? Breathless  with 
horror,  he  addresses  them.  ‘‘What  carry  ye?”  “Father, 
we  carry  an  urn/'  “ What  is  in  the  urn  ? ” “ Father,  some- 
thing bitter.”  “ What  is  the  something  bitter  ? ” “ Father, 

our  mother’s  tears.”  “ Where  is  your  mother  ? ” “Where 
the  water-lilies  grow.” 

Now,  at  last,  Henry  sees  that  he  has  overstepped  the 
bounds  set  to  man.  The  whole  wretchedness  of  his  imag- 


EPILOGUE, 


575 


ined  grandeur  is  revealed  to  him  with  terrible  clearness. 
He  drives  Rautendelein  away  with  calumny  and  cursing. 
He  destroys  with  his  own  hand  the  work  which  had  been 
to  him  the  symbol  of  a perfect  humanity.  He  resolves  to 
descend  again  to  the  fellowship  of  mortals.  But  it  is  too 
late.  The  superhuman  striving  has  consumed  his  strength. 
In  his  last  moment  Rautendelein  appears  to  him  once  more; 
she  has  returned  into  her  own  realm,  she  has  become  the 
wife  of  an  ugly  old  water-sprite  who  had  wooed  her  for 
years.  But  she  is  still  longing  for  human  affections,  and 
she  presses  a fervent  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  the  dying  one. 

If  in  this  fairy-drama  of  Hauptmann’s,  in  spite  of  its  fan- 
tastic setting,  we  are  yet  made  to  hear,  throughout,  the  echo 
of  the  spiritual  struggles  of  modern  humanity,  we  are  intro- 
duced into  equally  modern  conflicts  in  Sudermann’s  bi- 
blical drama  J^ohannes. 

Sudermann’s  John  the  Baptist  is  indeed  a counterpart  to 
Hauptmann’s  Henry,  the  bell-founder.  The  fate 
of  both  is  genuinely  tragic.  The  mediaeval  mys- 
tic succumbs  in  striving  for  an  artistic  ideal  too  grand  and 
too  shadowy  for  human  imagination.  The  Jewish  prophet 
succumbs  in  striving  for  a moral  ideal  too  visionary  and  too 
austere  for  human  happiness.  Both  lose  faith  in  themselves 
and  in  their  mission,  and  both  rise  through  their  very  failure 
to  the  height  of  true  humanity.  Nothing  is  more  impress- 
ive in  Sudermann’s  drama  than  the  way  in  which  this 
disenchantment  of  the  prophet  with  himself,  this  gradual 
awakening  to  the  sense  of  his  fundamental  error,  and  the 
final  bursting  forth  of  the  true  light  from  doubt  and  despair, 
are  brought  before  us. 

In  the  beginning  we  see  the  preacher  in  the  wilderness. 
He  has  gathered  about  himself  the  laden  and  the  lowly. 
With  burning  words  he  speaks  to  them  of  the  woe  of  the 
time,  of  the  misery  of  the  people  trodden  into  the  dust  both 
by  the  foreign  conqueror  and*by  its  own  rulers,  tormented  by 
its  traditional  obedience  to  a heartless,  inexorable  law.  And 


5y6  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

he  holds  out  to  them  the  vision  of  the  deliverer  and  aveng- 
er that  is  to  come  : the  Messiah,  clad  in  splendour,  like  the 
King  of  the  heavenly  host,  the  cherubim  around  him  on 
armoured  steeds  and  with  flaming  swords,  ready  to  crush  and 
to  slaughter.  Yet,  irresistible  and  intoxicating  as  his  ha- 
rangues are,  an  occasional  look,  an  occasional  word  betrays 
even  here  that  his  faith  is  not  born  of  a free  and  joyous  sur- 
render to  the  divine,  but  of  a dark,  brooding  fanaticism, 
and  we  feel  instinctively  that  it  will  not  stand  the  test  of 
self-scrutiny. 

Next  he  appears  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  inciting  the 
populace  to  revolt  against  Herod  and  his  lustful  house, 
especially  against  the  scandalous  marriage  into  which  the 
tetrarch  has  just  entered  with  Herodias,  the  divorced  wife 
of  his  own  brother,  and  which  he  wishes  to  have  sanctioned 
by  the  synagogue.  But  here  again,  it  is  the  blind  fanatic 
rather  than  the  inspired  leader  whom  we  hear  in  John's  lan- 
guage. Having  led  the  infuriated  mob  to  the  King’s  pal- 
ace, he  is  at  a loss  what  to  do,  he  feels  lonely  in  the  midst 
of  the  surging  crowd,  he  longs  for  his  rocks  in  the  wilder- 
ness ; and  when  the  Pharisees  take  this  opportunity  to  em- 
barrass him  by  mocking  questions  about  the  new  Law  the 
advent  of  which  he  has  been  holding  out  to  his  hearers,  he 
has  no  answer.  Just  then  there  is  heard  out  of  the  midst 
of  the  populace  the  voice  of  a Galilean  pilgrim  : Higher 

than  Law  and  Sacrifice  is  Love!  ” It  is  the  message  of  him 
whose  coming  John  has  been  preaching  without  divining 
his  true  call.  This  word  strikes  deep  into  his  soul.  For 
the  first  time  he  doubts  his  own  mission,  for  the  first  time 
there  looms  up  before  him  the  dim  vision  of  something 
more  exalted  than  his  own  dream  of  the  Messiah. 

Again  he  rises  to  his  full  power  as  a hero  of  asceticism  in 
his  interview  with  Herodias  and  her  wanton  daughter 
Salome.  Salome  has  been  fascinated  by  the  weird,  fan- 
tastic appearance  of  this  man  with  the  lion’s  mane  and  th'* 
far-away  look  in  his  eyes  ; she  wishes  to  flirt  with  him,  to 


EPILOGUE, 


577 


tame  him,  to  possess  him.  When  he  enters  the  palace,  she 
receives  him  with  a shower  of  roses  and  the  voluptuous 
songs  of  her  maidens.  But  he  remains  unmoved.  “ Gird 
thy  loins,”  he  says  to  her,  and  turn  away  from  me  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes.  For  I have  been  sent  as  a wrath  over 
thee  and  as  a curse  to  destroy  thee.”  And  he  does  not 
seem  to  notice  that  this  very  curse  affects  the  infatuated  girl 
like  a magic  love-potion.  Herodias,  too,  wishes  to  win 
him — she  wishes  to  make  him  a tool  of  her  political  designs, 
to  stifle  through  him  the  popular  opposition  to  the  clerical 
sanction  of  her  marriage  ; and  she  attempts  to  bribe  him  by 
offering  him  the  charms  of  her  daughter.  But  again  his  only 
answer  is  : Adulteress  ! ” And  yet  even  this  victory  over 

sensual  temptation  leaves  a sting  in  his  soul  ; for  again  he 
hears  that  mysterious  word.  Love,  and  he  must  remain  silent 
when  Herodias  calls  out  to  him  : “ What  right  have  you  to 
judge  the  guilty,  you  who  flee  from  human  life  into  the 
loneliness  of  the  desert  ? What  do  you  know  of  those  who 
live  and  die  for  love’s  sake  ?” 

And  now  he  comes  to  see  that  he  does  not  understand 
even  those  nearest  to  him.  The  wife  of  his  favourite  dis- 
ciple comes  to  him  and  beseeches  him  to  give  back  to  her 
the  heart  of  her  husband  ; for  since  he  has  joined  the  band 
of  the  Baptist’s  followers  he  has  forsaken  his  home  and  for- 
gotten his  kindred.  And  John  never  knew  anything  of 
this  man’s  inner  life,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  love  that 
he  is  accused  of  having  stifled  ! Who,  then,  is  he  to  teach 
others — he  who  is  constantly  confronted  with  his  own  limi- 
tations, who  must  confess  to  himself  that  he  is  without  a 
guiding  principle  of  his  own  conduct  ! Where  is  there  an 
outlook  for  him  ? Where  is  the  path  toward  his  salvation  ? 
Is  it  this  Love  that  is  thrust  upon  him  from  all  sides  ? No, 
no  ; it  cannot  be.  Love  is  littleness,  is  weakness,  is  selfish- 
ness, is  sin  ! No,  the  only  salvation  lies  in  the  Messiah, 
in  him  who  is  to  come  in  heavenly  splendour,  surrounded 
by  the  rainbow,  the  King  of  kings,  the  great  fulfiller  and 


578  SOCIAL  FORCES  IN  GERMAN  LITERATURE, 

judge  ! Thus  he  tries  to  assure  himself,  thus  he  strains 
every  nerve  to  maintain  his  tottering  belief  in  his  mission, 
to  keep  awake  the  hope  of  his  poor  downtrodden  people. 
And  from  this  very  people,  from  the  mouth  of  an  old 
wretched  beggar-woman,  he  now  hears  for  the  first  time  the 
full,  the  cruel  truth:  We  do  not  want  your  Messiah  ! 

We  do  not  want  your  King  ! Kings  come  only  to  kings  ; 
they  have  nothing  in  common  with  us,  the  poor.  Go  away  ; 
let  us  alone,  you  false  prophet  ! 

Immediately  after  this  scene  the  climax  is  reached.  Ever 
since  the  Baptist  for  the  first  time  heard  that  mysterious 
message  of  love,  he  has  been  endeavouring  to  discover 
whence  it  came.  In  a vague  manner  he  has  associated  it 
with  the  noble  youth  whom  years  ago  he  baptized  in  the 
Jordan,  and  from  whom  he  has  in  some  way  hoped  for  the 
fulfilment  of  his  Messianic  dreams.  Now  he  learns  from 
some  Galilean  fishermen  that  this  Jesus  of  Nazareth  has 
indeed  brought  a new  gospel — not  the  gospel  of  a super- 
human Messiah,  but  of  human  brotherhood  and  kindliness, 
of  the  love  of  one’s  enemies,  the  very  gospel  of  which  John, 
through  the  bitter  disenchantment,  has  gradually  become 
the  worthiest  prophet.  Just  after  this  meeting  with  the 
Galileans  he  is  drawn  into  the  surging  throng  of  the  popu- 
lace, who  have  streamed  together  to  make  a forcible  attack 
upon  Herod  and  his  wife  as  they,  in  solemn  procession, 
repair  to  the  temple.  Torn  with  conflicting  feelings  as  he 
is,  unable  to  collect  his  thoughts,  he  is  pushed  along  to  the 
steps  of  the  temple.  A stone  is  forced  into  his  hand:  he  is 
to  execute  the  judgment  of  the  people  against  the  vicious 
King  himself.  Mechanically  he  lifts  the  stone;  he  calls  out 
to  Herod:  In  the  name  of  him  who — but  the  stone 
glides  from  his  hand,  and  he  stammers — ‘‘  of  him  who  bade 
me  love  you  ! ” 

The  rest  of  the  drama  brings  little  new  of  inner  experi- 
ence. Once  more  John  rises  to  the  full  grandeur  of  the 
Old  Testament  prophet.  Imprisoned,  and  led  before  the 


EPILOGUE, 


579 


love-infatuated  Salome,  he  once  more  defies  her  raging 
passion.  He  dies  with  words  of  peace  and  hope  upon  his 
lips.  Immediately  after  his  execution  there  is  heard  from 
the  street  the  hosannah  of  the  jubilant  masses  greeting  the 
entry  of  Jesus  into  Jerusalem. 

It  is  not  the  office  of  Poetry  to  solve  social  problems.  It 
is  the  office  of  Poetry  to  hold  out  social  ideals.  The  Ger- 
man drama  of  the  last  decade  has  fulfilled  this  mission  with 

singular  nobility  of  purpose  and  with  singular 

r.  ..  Ill  Conclnsion, 

artistic  success.  To  think  that  this  remarkable 

literary  phenomenon  was  a symptom  of  approaching  social 

peace  would  of  course  be  tantamount  to  a belief  in  the 

approaching  millennium.  The  end  of  social  strife  would 

end  national  life  itself.  But  well  may  we  hope  that  the 

ideals  held  out  in  the  German  drama  of  the  last  decade 

will  help  to  raise  this  strife  to  a higher  level  and  make  it, 

instead  of  an  instrument  of  destruction,  an  instrument  of 

progress  and  human  happiness. 

That  even  in  such  fearful  pictures  of  moral  disintegration  as 
Hauptmann’s  Vor  Sonnenaufgang  or  Das  Friedensfest  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  moral  incentive,  no  one  would  deny.  One  cannot 
help  wishing,  however,  that  the  Versunke^ie  Glockf  might  have 
put  an  end  to  these  awful  representations  of  hopeless  misery. 
Unfortunately  in  his  latest  productions,  Fuhrmann  Henschd  and 
Michael  Kramer^  Hauptmann  seems  to  have  returned  to  the 
earliest  stage  of  his  artistic  development. 


INDEX 


Abbt,  Thomas,  Vom  Tode  ftirs 
Vaterland,  278 

Abraham  a Sancta  C\3.r2i,  Judas 
der  Ertzschelniy  203,  204 
Adam  of  Bremen,  49 
Addison,  215 

Adelheid,  wife  of  emperor  Otto 
I.,  49 

Aegidius  Albertinus,  Gusman 
von  Alfarache,  200 
^neas  Sylvius,  see  Enea  Silvio, 
^schylus,  469,  549 
Alaric,  king  of  the  Visigoths, 
7,  10 

Alberich  von  Bisinzo  (Besan- 
9on),  59 

Albert  of  Kdln  (Albertus  Mag- 
nus), lOI 

Alboin,  king  of  the  Langobards, 

13 

Albrecht  von  Eyb,  141 
Alcuin,  12 
Aleman,  Mateo,  200 
Alexander  lied,  56,  58-62 
Alexis,  Willibald,  pseudon.  for 
Wilhelm  Haring,  Der  falsche 
Waldemar,  498 
Alp  harts  Tod^  77 
Alsfeld,  see  Passion-plays. 
A?nadis  of  GauP  162 
American  Revolution,  230,  309, 
345,  445 
Amiens,  loi 
Amis,  see  Strieker. 
Anacreonticists,  222 
Angelus  Silesius,  pseudon.  for 
Johann  Scheffler,  193,  195- 

197,  450 


Anglo-Saxons,  7,  ii,  85 
Annolied,  56 

Antichristo , Ludus  de,  130,  13 1 
Anzengruber,  Ludwig,  554 
Aquino,  see  Thomas  of. 
Arcadian  novel,  185 
Aristotle,  49,  275 
Arndt,  Ernst  Moritz,  437,  438, 
492,  494,  496;  Geist  der  Zeit, 

437, 438 

Arnim,  Achim  von,  460,  461 
Arnim,  Bettina  von,  421 
Ar^isteiner  Marienleich,  56 
Arthurian  legend,  85,  89,  93-95 
Attila,  Atli,  Ezzel,  7,  8,  16,  18, 
20,  26-28,  81,  82 
Aue,  see  Hartmann  von. 
Auerbach,  Berthold,  407,  513 
Auersperg,  see  Griin. 

Augsburg,  see  David  of. 
Augustine,  St.,  Civitas  Dei,  35 
Augustus  the  Strong  of  Sax- 
ony, 181,  187,  213 
Austria,  72,  480,  497,  503 
Ava,  56 

Ayrer,  Jacob,  158,  214 

Bach,  Johann  Sebastian,  197, 
236,  237,  246 
Bacon,  176 

Babenberg  dynasty,  72 
Ballads,  Popular,  see  Lyrics. 
Bamberg,  Sculptures  in  the 
cathedral  of,  90 
Basedow,  Joh.  Bernhard,  302 
Basel,  Treaty  of,  397,  409 
Baur,  Ferdinand,  400 
Bayle,  176 


581 


582 


INDEX. 


Bebel,  Heinrich,  143 
Beethoven,  Ludwig  van,  336, 
375,  400,  455 

Benediktbeuren,  see  Christmas 
plays,  Passion-plays. 
Beowulf.,  16-19 

Berlin,  173,  406,  437,  497,  543  ; 

University,  434,  440,  444 
Bern,  see  Dietrich  von. 
Bernhard  of  Clairvaux,  107, 
192 

Berthold  of  Regensburg,  107- 
109,  115 

Besangon,  see  Alberich  von  Bi- 
sinzo. 

Besser,  Johann  von,  186 
Bibliothek  der  schonen  Wissen- 
schaften,  268 

Bismarck,  Prince,  395,  496,  556, 
560,  561 

Biterolf  und  Dietleib,  77 
Bitzius,  Albert,  see  Gotthelf. 
Boccaccio,  292 

Bodmer,  Johann  Jacob,  215, 
458 

Boethius,  49 
Bdhme,  Jacob,  195 
Boie,  Christian  Heinrich,  303 
Boileau,  183 
Boisseree,  Sulpiz,  531 
Boner,  Ulrich,  Edelstein.,  126, 
127 

Boniface,  St.,  see  Winifred. 
Borne,  Ludwig,  395,  500,  514- 
519,  545 

Brandenburg,  after  the  Thirty 
Years’  War,  173 
Brant,  Sebastian,  Narrenschiff^ 
127,  162 

Breitinger,  Joh.  Jacob,  215 
Bremen,  see  Adam  of, 

Bremer  Beitrdge,  215 
Brentano,  Clemens,  455,  460, 
461 

Britanje,  see  Thomas  vono 
Brockes,  Barthold  Heinrich, 
218,  219,  221,  359 
Bruges,  116 

Briiggemann,  Hans,  135 
Brunhild,  Frankish  princess,  15 
Brunhild,  Brynhild,  Sigrdrifa, 
19,  20,  31,  32,  78-80 


Brunswick,  see  Henry  Julius. 
Buchholtz,  Andreas  Heinrich, 
Herculiscus  und  Herculadisla^ 

185 

Burger,  Gottfried  August,  305, 
307.  310,  31L  457 
Burgundians,  7,  20,  21,  27,  81 
Buschius,  Hermann,  143 
Byron,  400,  500 

Calderon,  453,  456 
Canterbury,  loi 
Carlyle,  384,  535 
Carolingian  monarchy,  3,  8,  35, 
36,  67  ^ 

Catholicism,  Romantic  revival 
of,  447-454 
Celtic  legends,  4,  85 
Celtis,  Konrad,  141 
Chalons,  Battle  of,  8 
Chamisso,  Adelbert  von,  455 
Charles  the  Great,  ii,  12,  17, 
35»  36,  67,  68;  in  poetry,  57, 
85,  489,  5T3 
Chateaubriand,  432 
Chivalry,  4,  67,  68,  186,  187 
Chodowiecki,  Daniel,  225 
Chrestien  de  Troyes,  91,  96 
Christian  von  Hamle,  71 
Christmas  plays,  129,  130;  Be- 
nediktbeuren play,  130;  Hes- 
sian, 134,  135 

City  life,  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
103,  104,  135 

Clairvaux,  see  Bernhard  of. 
Claudius,  Matthias,  314,  315 
Closener,  Fritsche,  104 
Clovis,  king  of  the  Franks,  13, 

14 

Collectivism,  63,  64,  318,  319, 
326,  331,  348,  368,  399,  400, 
430,  431.  433,  434,  436,  439, 
440,  442,  443,  446,  448,  542- 
544,  545,  548-553,  555, 
Cologne,  see  Kdln. 

Columbia  College,  496 
Comte,  Auguste,  400 
Conrad,  see  Konrad. 
Constantinople,  46,  47,  55 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  496 
Copernicus,  Nicolaus,  139,  170, 
171 


INDEX, 


583 


Corneille,  267,  269,  274 
Cornelius,  Peter,  400,  456 
Corvey,  see  Widukind  of. 
Cremona,  see  Liudprand  of. 
Crisp,  Samuel,  Virginia,  284 
Crotus  Rubianus,  146 
Crusades,  53“55 

Dach,  Simon,  189 
Dahlmann,  Friedr.  Christoph, 
497 

Dahn,  Felix,  554 
Dante,  64,  93,  loi 
Darwin,  400 
David  of  Augsburg,  109 
Defoe,  215 

Defregger,  Franz,  407 
Descartes,  176,  177 
Didactic  poetry,  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  122-128 
Diderot,  128,  274,  278,  555 
Dietleib,  see  Biterolf, 

Dietrich  von  Bern,  18,  21,  29. 

See  Theoderic. 

Dingelstedt,  Franz,  546 
Discourse  der  Maler,  215 
Domenichino,  194 
Dominican  order,  loi,  107 
Drama,  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
129-138;  of  the  Reformation 
period,  158,  164-166  (school- 
drama,  163);  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  185;  of  the 
Storm-and-Stress  period,  305, 
309,  310,  336-341,  343-347; 

the  Classic  drama,  278-286, 
292-297,  350-355,  362-368,379 
-397,  536-540;  the  Romantic 
drama,  45i~453,  455,  472-474, 
476-480,  482-484,  497-499, 509, 
536-540;  Richard  Wagner’s 
view  of  the  drama,  549;  the 
contemporary  drama,  555^579 
Droste-Hulshoif,  Annette  von, 

513 

Duns  Scotus,  loi 
Diirer,  Albrecht,  39,  03,  105, 
128,  157-159,  506 

Easter  plays,  129-138;  Reden- 
tin play,  135-138;  Trier  play, 
130;  Vienna  play,  131-133 


Ebersberg,  see  Williram  of. 
Ecbasis  captivi,  47-49,  122 
Eckermann,  Johann  Peter,  531 
Eckhart,  Master,  109-111 
Edda,  17,  19,  20,  28,  31,  32,  40 
Editha,  wife  of  Otto  1.,  49 
Eichendorff,  Joseph  von,  455 
Eike  von  Repgow,  Sachsefispie- 
gel,  104 

Eilhard  von  Oberge,  97 
Einhard, 12 

Ekkehard  I.,  of  St.  Gallen,  22, 
47,  77 

Ekkehard  II.,  49 
Ekkehard  IV. , 49 
Ems,  see  Rudolf  von. 

Enea  Silvio,  103 
English  influence  on  German 
literature,  158,  214-216,  248, 
251,  274,  328,  456,  457:  the 
English  comedians,  158,  214, 
456 

Epic  poetry,  of  the  Migration 
period,  3,  16-33,  76;  the  na- 
tional epics  of  the  twelfth 
century,  4,  76-84;  t1  e court 
epics,  4,  84-99;  animal  epics, 
47-49,  122 

Epistolce  obscurorum  virorum, 
146 

Erasmus  of  Rotterdam,  139,  141 
-145;  Morice  Encomium,  142 
-144;  Enchiridion,  145 
Ermanric,  king  of  the  Goths, 
18 

Ernst,  Herzog,  55 
Eschenbach,  see  Wolfram  von. 
Eschenburg’s  transl.  of  Shak- 
spere,  457 

Eulenspiegel,  Till,  127,  462 

Euripides,  350 

Eyb,  see  Albrecht  von. 

Eyck,  Hubert  and  Jan,  113,  360, 

'^531 

Ezzel,  see  Attila. 

Ezzo’s  Song  of  Redemption,  56 

Fairy  tales,  see  W.  Grimm, 
Musaus,  Tieck. 

Fate-Tragedy,  455,  497,  509 
Faust,  the  Volksbuch  of,  170, 
171;  the  puppet-play,  34’2 ; 


584 


INDEX. 


Marlowe’s  Faustusy  342,  343; 
Lessing’s  Faust,  336,  337; 

Maler  Muller’s,  310;  Klin- 
ger’s, 305-307;  Grabbe’s,  455; 
Lenau’s,  505.  See  Goethe. 
Felsenburgy  Die  Inset,  215 
Ferdinand  II. , emperor,  173 
Feudalism,  3,4,  35,  36,  63,  64 
Feuerbach,  Ludwig,  546 
Fichte,  Johann  Gottlieb,  332, 

349,  416,  434-443.  447.  448. 

467,  477,  480,  482,  491,  522, 
527.  534»  542,  548,  551;  Grund’ 

zuge  des  gegenw.  Zeit alters, 
437»  438-441;  Reden  an  d. 

deutsche  Nation,  437,  441-443, 
477,  482 
Fielding,  128 

Fischart,  Johann,  163,  167-170, 
173;  Gliickhafft  Schiff,  167, 
168;  Geschichtklitterung,  168, 
169 

Fleming,  Paul,  189,  190 
Follen,  Karl,  496 
Folz,  Hans,  138 
Fontane,  Theodor,  554 
Forster,  Friedrich,  491,  492 
Forster,  Georg,  313 
Fortunatus , 462 

Fouque,  Friedrich,  Baron  de 
la  Motte,  455 

Franciscan  order,  loi,  107 
Francke,  August  Hermann, 
175,  176,  246. — Cotton  Ma- 
ther on  F.,  175 
Frankfurt,  314,  516 
Frankfurter,  Der,  see  Theolo- 
gia  detitsch. 

Frankish  dynasty,  34,  37 
Franks,  8,  10,  13-15,  19 
Frauenlob,  see  Heinrich  von 
Meissen. 

Fredegond,  Frankish  princess, 

15 

Frederick  Barbarossa,  65,  66, 
130,  186,  495,  499 
Frederick  II.,  emperor,  66,  67, 

72 

Frederick  the  Great,  223,  228- 
232,  265,  277,  299,  300,  313, 
435. — F.  on  Gellert,  223;  on 
German  literature,  299,  300 


Frederick  William,  the  Great 
Elector,  173,  188,  482-484 
Frederick  William  L,  king  of 
Prussia,  173 

Frederick  William  III.,  king  of 
Prussia,  440,  441,  490,  491, 
545 

Frederick  William  IV.,  king  of 
Prussia,  545,  546 
Freiberg,  The  Golden  Porte  of, 
90 

Freiberg,  see  Heinrich  von. 
Freidank,  106 

Freiligrath,  Ferdinand,  503,  546, 
548 

Freising,  see  Otto  of. 

French  influence  on  German 
literature,  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  4,  56,  59,  69,  72,  84,  91, 
96,  97,  122;  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  179,  183,  200; 
in  the  eighteenth  century, 
179,  183,  184,  251,  252,  266, 
268,  269,  274,  276-278 
French  Revolution,  128,  249, 
251,  301,  332,  344,  361,  368, 
378,  396,  435;  the  July  Revo- 
lution, 518,  545 
Freytag,  Gustav,  554 
Friedrich  von  Hausen,  70 
Frischlin,  Nicodemus,  Julius 
Redivivus , 163 
Fulda,  41,  45 

Gallen,  St.,  45,  49 
Gandersheim,  45,  49.  See  Ger- 
birg  and  Rosvitha. 

Geibel,  Emanuel,  554 
Geiler  von  Kaisersberg,  115 
Geiseric,  king  of  the  Vandals, 
10 

Gelimer,  king  of  the  Vandals, 
28 

Gellert,  Christian  Fiirchtegott, 
216,  223-227,  234,  252,  282.— 
G.  on  the  battle  of  Rossbach, 
227 

Genesis,  Old-Saxon,  38;  Wiener 
Genesis,  56 

Geneste,  Sieur  de  la,  200 
Gengenbach,  Pamphilus,  Die 
Totenfresser,  158 


INDEX, 


5-5 


Gentz,  Friedrich  von,  497 
Gerbirg  of  Gandersheim,  49 
Gerhardt,  Paul,  189,  191-193 
Germanic  tribes.  Migrations  of, 
3,  7-9;  the  effect  of  the  Mi- 
grations on  Germanic  charac- 
ter, 9-15;  the  Germanic  past 
in  seventeenth-century  liter- 
ature, 201,  203,  444;  in  eigh- 
teenth - century  literature, 
247,  445 

Gerstenberg,  Heinrich  Wilhelm 
von,  248 

Gervinus,  Georg  Gottfried, 
497,  498 

Gessner,  Salomon,  359 
Ghent,  116 
Gleemen,  54,  55 

Gleim,  Johann  Ludwig,  222, 
223,  314,  359 
Gluck,  Willibald,  350 
Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang,  6, 
92,  III,  163,  177,  218,  223, 
228,  233,  238,  248,  263,  266, 
270,  271,  302,  308,  318,  335- 

337.  339-368,  374,  375,  395- 

398, 399, 410, 413, 414, 416, 423, 
425,  427, 429, 433, 441, 445, 

456, 457. 467.  468, 487. 491. 

492,  512,  519, 521,  524,  525, 
527-540,  548;  Von  deutscher 
Art  u,  Kunsty  322;  Got^  von 
Berlichingen,  336,  339,  341, 
346;  Werthers  Leiden^  225, 

233.  336,  339.  340-342,  346; 

Urfaust  and  Faust ^ ein  Frag- 
ment, 305,  336,  337,  343,  347, 
348,  362,  416;  Prometheus , 

333,  340.  341;  Stella,  336;  Eg- 
mont,  346,  347;  Iphigenie,  92, 
266,  350-352,  362;  Tasso,  350, 
352-355,  362;  lyrics  and  bal- 
lads, 350,  374,  375;  Reineke 
Ftichs,  355;  Wilhelm  MeistePs 
Lehrjahre,  227,  253,  350,  355- 
359,  362,  413,  419,  427,  511, 
532,  5345  Hermann  und  Doro- 
thea, 350,  359-362,  425;  Xe- 
nien,  414;  scientific  writ- 
ings, 527;  Faust,  First  Part, 
263,  343,  350,  362-368,  532; 
Pandora,  528,  529;  Wahlver- 


wandtschaften,  528-530;  Dich- 
tung  und  Wahrheit , 270,  314, 
531;  Des  Epimenides  Erwa- 
chen,  528;  Italienische  Reise, 
531;  Kunstund  Altertu7n,  531; 
Westostlicher  Divan,  531; 
Maxhnen  und  Rejlexionen, 
531;  With.  Meisters  Wander^ 
jahre,  532-536;  Faust,  Second 
Part,  532,  533,  536-540.— G. 
on  Der  arine  Heinrich,  92;  on 
H.  Sachs,  163;  on  Gunther, 
218;  on  Gellert,  223;  on  Klop- 
stock,  233,  238,  248;  on  Wie- 
land,  262,  263;  on  Lessing, 
270,  271 ; on  the  Stolbergs,  308 ; 
on  Gleim,  314;  on  Herder,  320; 
on  Germany,  398,  405 
Goeze,  Melchior,  288-290 
Goliard  poetry,  69 
Gdrres,  Joseph,  461-463,  496 
Goths,  see  Ostrogoths,  Visi- 
goths. 

Gottfried  von  Strassburg, 
Tristan,  5,  88,  89,  96-99,  104, 
106,  529 

Gotthelf,  Jeremias,  pseudon. 

for  Albert  Bitzius,  513 
Gottingen,  220,  303 
Gottsched,  Johann  Christoph, 
179-185,  268-270,  271;  Criti- 
sche  Dichtkunst , 180-182,  184, 
185;  Sterbender  Cato,  Die 
vernunftigen  Tadlerinnen,l\^ 
Grabbe,  Christian,  455 
Grafenberg,  see  Wirnt  von. 
Grail,  Holy,  89,  93-95 
Gregory  VII.,  pope,  35,  53 
Gregory  of  Tours,  13 
Grillparzer,  Franz,  498,  499,  502 
Grimm,  Jacob,  247,  400,  458, 
463-467,  497 

Grimm,  Wilhelm,  247,  463-467, 
497;  preface  to  the  Kinder- 
und  Hausmdrchen,  466 
Grimmelshausen,  Hans  Jacob 
Christoffel  von,  Simplicissi- 
mus,  200,  203-206,  209  {Con- 
tinuatio,  215),  219,  252,  253, 
355,  427 
Grobianus , 162 

Grlin,  Anastasius,  pseudon.  for 


S86 


INDEX, 


Alexander  Count  Auersperg, 
503  545 

Gryphius,  Andreas,  185,  207, 
208 

Guarini,  187 

Gudrun  legend,  ig,  24-26,  30  ; 
Wate,  24-26;  Horand,  28.  — 
The  Middle  High  German 
Gudrun,  77,  82-84,  104;  Gu- 
drun’s  character,  82 
Gudrun  = Kriemhild,  32 
Gundicar,  king  of  the  Burgun- 
dians, 20 

Gunther,  (Gunnar),  20,  23,  28, 
2g,  32,  78-81 

Gunther,  Johann  Christian, 
217,  218 

Gutzkow,  Karl,  521,  545,  546 

Hadlaub,  Johannes,  106 
Hadwig,  duchess  of  Swabia,  49 
Hagedorn,  Friedrich  von,  215, 
222,  359  ^ 

Hagen,  Fried.  H.  von  der,  460 
Hagen,  in  the  Nibelungen  le- 
gend, 26-28,  80-82;  in  the 
Walthari  legend,  23 
Hagenau,  see  Reinmar  von. 
Hainbund,  303 
Halbe,  Max,  560,  565-570 
Halberstadt,  314 
Halle  University,  175,  440 
Haller,  Albrecht  von,  215,  220- 
222,234,  341,  359  ^ 

Haller,  Karl  Ludwig  von,  497 
Hamann,  Johann  Georg,  301, 
302,  360 
Hamburg,  314 
Hamerling,  Robert,  554 
Hamle,  see  Christian  von. 
Hampden,  John,  397 
Handel,  Georg  Friedrich,  197, 
236,  237,  246,  494 
Hardenberg,  see  Novalis. 
Haring,  Wilhelm,  see  Alexis. 
Harsddrfer,  Georg  Philipp, 
180,  181 

Hartmann  von  Aue,  5,  85,  88- 
93,  104,  106;  Bilchlein,  93; 

Erec,  88,  90,  91 ; Gregorius,  gi ; 
Der  arme  Heinrich,  91,  92; 
Iwein,  85,  88,  90,  91 


Harvard  University,  496 
Haulf,  Wilhelm,  Lichtenstein, 
498 

Hauptmann,  Gerhart,  560,  565, 
570-575,  579 

Haupt-  und  Staatsactionen,  185 
Hausen,  see  Friedrich  von. 
Haydn,  Joseph,  400 
Hebbel,  Friedrich,  534 
Hebei,  Johann  Peter,  314,  315, 
407 

Hegel,  Georg  Friedrich  Wil- 
helm, no,  400,  521,  527,  540- 
544;  Phdnonienologie , 541; 

Philosophie  des  Rechts,  542, 
543;  Philosophie  der  Ge- 
schichte,  543,  544 
Heine,  Heinrich,  374,  454,  456, 
497,  498,  500,  509,  514-517, 
519-527,  545 

Heinrich  von  Freiberg,  97 
Heinrich  der  Glichessere,  Isen~ 
grines  N6t,  122 

Heinrich  von  Meissen,  Frauen- 
lob,  106 

Heinrich  von  Melk,  56 
Heinrich  von  Morungen,  70 
Heinrich  von  Veldeke,  70,  85, 
86 

Heinse,  Wilhelm,  303;  Ardin- 
ghello,  31 1,  312 
Heljand,  38-40 

Henry  L,  king  of  Germany,  45, 
49 

Henry  IT,  emperor,  52 
Henry  IIL,  emperor,  45 
Henry  IV.,  emperor,  34 
Henry  VI.,  emperor,  74 
Henry  Julius,  duke  of  Bruns- 
wick, 158,  214 

Herder,  Johann  Gottfried,  116, 
302, 318-328,  332,  335,  360,  395, 
396, 399, 429,  433,  441,  445,  447, 
456,  457,459,467,  542;  Erag- 
mente  iiber  die  neuere  deutsche 
Literatur,  320,  321;  Tagebuch 
einer  Seereise  von  Riga  nach 
Nantes,  321,  322;  Von  deut- 
scher  Art  und  Kunst,  116, 
322-324;  Von  Aehnlichkeit  der 
mittleren  eng  I,  u,  deutschen 
Dichtkunst , 324,  325;  Volks-^ 


INDEX. 


587 


lieder^  325;  Vom  Geist  der 
ebrdiscLen  Poesie^  325;  Ideen 
zur  Philosophie  der  Gesckichte 
der  Menschheit ^ 325-328,  459; 
Brief e zur  Beforderung  der 
Humanitdt , 325,  326;  Cid^  325 
Hermann  of  Reichenau,  49 
Hermann,  landgrave  of  Thu- 
ringia, 72 

Hersfeld,  see  Lambert  of. 
Herwegh,  Georg,  546 
Heyse,  Paul,  554 
Hilde  legend,  19 
Hildebrandslied^  17,  21,  22,  77 
Hindu  literature,  15,  457,  500 
Hippel,  Theodor  Gottlieb  von, 
405;  G.  Th.  von,  491 
Hofer,  Andreas,  456 
Hoffmann,  Ernst  Theodor  Ama- 
daus,  455,  497 

Hoffmann  von  Fallersleben, 
Heinrich,  520 

Hoffmannswaldau,  Christian 
von,  186 

Hohenstaufen  dynasty,  17,  65- 
67,  100 

Hohenzollern  dynasty,  173,  174 
Holbein,  Hans,  128,  139,  558 
Hdlderlin,  Friedrich,  Hyperion^ 
445,  446 

Holty,  Ludwig,  303 
Holy  Alliance,  The,  401,  495, 
517,  539 

Homeric  poems,  15,  85,  273,  322, 
324,  342,  360,  459 
Horace,  183,  252 
Houwald,  Ernst  von,  455 
Hrabanus  Maurus,  see  Rabanus. 
Hrotsvitha,  see  Rosvitha. 

Hugo,  Victor,  400,  443,  500 
Hugo  of  Trimberg,  Der  Ren- 
ner^ 125,  126 

Humanism,  5,  12,  loi,  104,  138, 
141-150,  176,  328;  modern 
Humanism,  333,  334,  349,  350 
Humboldt,  Alexander  von,  400, 
542,  543 

Humboldt,  Wilhelm  von,  332, 
333,  376,  434 
Hume,  176 
Huss,  John,  102 
Hutten,  Ulrich  von,  139,  141, 


142,  146-150;  Die  Anschauen- 
den,  147,  148;  Die  roni.  Drei- 
faltigkeit,  149;  Bullicida,  149 

Ibsen,  555 

Idyllic  poetry,  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  359,  360 
Ildico,  Attila’s  wife,  20 
Ilsan,  the  monk,  77 
Immermann,  Karl  Lebrecht, 
500,  506,  509,  5 10-5 14;  Mer^ 
lin,  51 1 ; Epigofien,  51 1,  512; 
Munchhausen,  5 12-5 14 
Individualism,  5,  6,  105,  106 
117, 141, 145, 150, 175-178,  187, 
188,  198,  216,  233,  282,  317- 
319,.  326,  329,  331,  348,  368, 
396,  413,  418,  429,  430,  433, 
435,  441,  442,  447,  448,  545, 
555 

Ingres,  Jean  Auguste,  400 
Innocent  III.,  pope,  64,  65,  74, 
75 

Investiture,  Wars  of,  37,  53 
Isengrimus , 49,  122 
Italy,  8,  II,  18,  65,  loi,  351, 
362;  Italian  influence  on  Ger- 
man literature  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  187;  Italian 
opera, 551 

Jacobi,  Friedrich  Heinrich,  355 
Jahn,  Friedrich  Ludwig,  496 
Jansenists,  175 
Jean  Paul,  see  Richter. 

Jena,  333,  377,  37S;  battle  of, 
378,  409,  427,  437.  441,  527, 

541 

Jesuits,  139,  167,  168,  175,  193, 

423 

Jordan,  Wilhelm,  554 
Jordanes,  16 

Joseph  II.,  emperor,  231,  313 
Judith,  56 

Jung-Stilling,  Heinrich,  406 
Justinger,  Konrad,  Chronik 
von  Bern,  104 
Jutta,  Frau,  138 

Kaiserchronik,  56 
Kaisersberg,  see  Geiler  von. 
Kant,  Immanuel,  6,  22S,  314, 


588 


INDEX. 


318, 328-332,  335,  349, 370, 395, 
399,  416,  429,  430,  432-436, 
440,  441,  467-469,  521,  542, 
548,  559;  Kritik  der  reineti 
V ernunft ^ 328,  329;  Kritik  der 
praktischen  V ernunft ^ 330,  331 
Karl  August,  grand-duke  of 
Sachsen-Weimar,  313 
Karl  Eugen,  duke  of  Wiirtem- 
berg,  314 

Karlsbad  Resolutions,  The,  501 
Keller,  Gottfried,  554 
Kempen,  Thomas  of. 
Keppler,  Johann,  170 
Kerner,  Justinus,  486 
Kinkel,  Gottfried,  548 
KlagCy  diu,  81 

Kleist,  Christian  Ewald  von, 
215,  282,  359 

Kleist,  Heinrich  von,  467-485, 
487,  495,  527;  Robert  Gtiis- 
card  469,  470;  Der  zerbrochene 
Krug,  470-472,  484,  485;  Pen- 
thesilea,  470,  472,  473,  485; 
K at  he  hen  von  Heilbronn,  470, 
473 > 474 > 484;  Michael  Kohl- 
haas,  470,  473,  475,  476;  Her- 
mannsschlacht , 470*  47^~48o, 

485;  Katechismus  der  Deut- 
schen,  480,  481,  485;  Prinz 
von  Homburg,  482-485 
Klinger,  Friedrich  Maximilian, 
304,  315,  558;  Eatist,  305-307; 
Sturm  u.  Drang,  309;  Zwil- 
linge,  309 

Klopstock,  Friedrich  Gottlieb, 
197,  219,  233-250,  251,  252, 
265,  282,  287,  303,  308,  360, 
429,  445,  490.  547; 

Messias,  233,  236-246;  odes 
and  dramas,  233,  246-250; 
Gelehrtenrepublik,  250 
Knaus,  Ludwig,  407 
Kdln,  45,  loi;  paintings  of  the 
Cologne  school,  43,  116.  See 
Albert  of  Koln,  Wilhelm  of 
Kdln,  Lochner. 

Kdnig,  Johann  Ulrich  von,  186 
Kdnigsberg,  314 
Kdnigshofen,  see  Twinger. 
Konrad,  Der  pfaffe,  56.  See 
Rolandslied,  Kaiser chronik. 


Konrad  of  Wurzburg,  Der  Welt 
Lohn,  Die  goldene  Schmiedet 
106 

Kopp,  Joseph,  499 
Kdrner,  Theodor,  491-494 
Kotzebue,  August  von,  414 
Kriemhild,  19-21,  26-28,  (Gu- 
drun,  32,)  78-82 
Kudrun,  see  Gudrun. 

Kyot,  96 

Lachmann,  Karl,  460 
La  Chaussee,  Nivelle  de,  278 
Lambert  of  Hersfeld,  49 
Lamennais,  400 

Lamprecht,  Der  pfaffe,  56,  58-62 
Langobards,  8,  13 
Laube,  Heinrich,  499,  521,  545 
Lauremberg,  Johann,  203 
Lavater,  Johann  Kaspar,  302 
Leben  [esu,  56 

Leibniz,  Gottfried  Wilhelm,  176- 
178,  188,  191,  256 
Leipzig,  223;  battle  of,  467,  494 
Leisewitz,  Johann  Anton, 
von  Parent,  309 

Lenau,  Nicolaus,  pseudon.  for 
Nic.  Franz  Niembsch  Edler 
von  Strehlenau,  500,  502-506 
Lenz,  Jacob  Michael  Rein- 
hold, 304,  315,  558  ; Der  Hof- 
meister,  304  ; Die  Soldaten,  305 
Lessing,  Gotthold  Ephraim, 
128,  146,  180,  198,  220,  265- 

299.  303,  319. 336. 337.  339. 

340,  345,  359.  399.  429.  491. 
521;  Miss  Sara  Sampson,  278; 
Litteraturbriefe,  268-270;  Phi- 
lotas,  278;  Laokoon,  267,  270- 
274;  Hamburgische  Drama- 
turgie,  266,  270,  274-278  ; 

Minna  von  Barnhehji,  266, 
278-282;  E7nilia  Galotti,  266, 
278,  279,  282-286,  336,  344; 
Faust,  336,  337;  Wolfenbut- 
teler  Fragmente,  288;  poleiriics 
with  Goeze,  288-291;  Nathan 
der  Weise,  288,  292-297,  347; 
Ernst  und  Falk,  293;  Erzieh- 
ung  des  Menschengeschlechts , 
288,  297-299. — L.  on  Haller, 
220;  on  Wieland,  253;  on  Cor 


INDEX. 


589 


neille,  269;  on  Shakspere, 
268,  269,  276;  on  Homer,  273; 
on  Luther,  289 
Lex  Salica^  10 

Lexington,  Minute-Men  of,  397 
Lichtenberg,  Georg  Christ.,  405 
Lichtenstein,  see  Ulrich  von. 
Lieber,  Franz,  496 
Lillo,  278 

Linihu7'ger  Chronik.,  116,  125 
Lindau,  Paul,  556 
Liscow,  Christian  Ludwig,  215 
Liudprand  of  Cremona,  45-47 
Lochner,  Stephan,  43,  113 
Locke,  176,  177 

Logau,  Friedrich  von,  199,  200, 
203 

Lohengrin  legend,  95 
Lohenstein,  Daniel  Casper  von, 
ArminiuSy  185 
Longfellow,  92 
Louis  XIV.,  173,  183,  266 
Liibeck,  116,  137 
Luden,  Heinrich,  398 
Ludwig,  Otto,  554 
Ludwig  the  Pious,  emperor,  38 
Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  emperor, 

lOI 

Ludwigslied,  41 

Luther,  Martin,  139,  140,  146, 
147,  150-158,  160-163,  166, 

168,  171,  175,  177,  328,  397, 
521,  559;  An  den  christlicke^i 
Adel,  1 51-154;  De  captivitate 
Babylonica,  154,  155;  Von  der 
Freiheit  eines  Christenmen- 
schen,  156,  157;  hymns,  161; 
translation  of  the  Bible,  161; 
last  sermon  in  Wittenberg, 
161. — Diirer  on  Luther,  157, 
158;  Lessing  on  Luther,  289 
Liitzow  volunteers,  491,  492 
Lyrics,  Popular,  5,  116-122;  re- 
ligious lyrics,  188-197;  Her- 
der’s view  of  the  Volkslied, 
116,  323,  324;  Arnim’s,  460, 
461.  See  Wunderhorn, 

Macpherson,  248 
Mahabbharata,  15 
Mainz,  41,  45 
Mantegna,  531 


Manuel,  Niclas,  Der  Ablasskrii- 
7ner,  158 

Marcianus  Capella,  49 
Marienklage,  Triertr,  133 
Marino,  187 

Marlowe’s  Faustus,  342,  343 
Marx,  Karl,  400,  550 
Masters,  The  Seven  Wise,  462 
Mastersingers,  116 
Mather,  Cotton,  175 
Mathilda,  wife  of  King  Henry 
L,  49 

Maximilian  L,  emperor,  100, 
146,  520 

Maximinus,  Roman  emperor,  9, 
10 

Meier  Heh7ibrecht,  see  Wernher. 
Meissen,  see  Heinrich  von. 
Melanchthon,  Philipp,  139 
Melk,  see  Heinrich  von. 
Memlinc,  Hans,  113,  360,  361, 
424,  425 

Mendelssohn,  Moses,  268,  269 
Menzel,  Vv^olfgang,  514 
Merseburg,  see  Thietmar  ot* 
Merswin,  Rulman,  113 
Metternich,  Prince,  455,  495, 
500,  503,  546 

Middle  Ages,  3,  4,  34-138;  Me- 
diaeval church  and  state,  34- 
38,  100-104;  preaching  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  107;  territorial 
princes,  102,  103;  city  life, 
103,  104,  135;  idyllic  side  of 
mediaeval  life,  360;  Roman- 
ticism and  the  Middle  Ages, 
424-426,  445-467 
Miller,  Martin,  Siegwart,  303 
Milton,  214,  215 
Minnesong,  4,  68-76,  122,  456, 
458,  459 

Minstrels,  see  Gleemen. 
Mirabeau,  299 
Moliere,  209 
Montesquieu,  230,  320 
Moralische  Wochenschriften,  21 5 
Mdrike,  Eduard,  487 
Morolf,  see  Salman. 

Morungen,  see  Heinrich  von. 
Moscherosch,  Hans  Michael, 
Gesichte  Philanders  von  Mite- 
wald,  200-203,  219,  235,  444 


590 


INDEX. 


Moser,  Justus,  314;  Patriot. 
Phantasieen^  315,  316;  Von 

deutscher  Art  u.Kunst^  322 
Mozart,  Wolfgang  Amadeus, 
336,  400 

Muller,  Adam,  497 
Muller,  Friedrich  (Maler 
Muller),  Fausty  310 
Muller,  Johannes  von,  459 
Muller,  Wilhelm,  455 
Milliner,  Adolf,  455 
Murner,  Thomas,  Narrenbe- 
schworung^  Gauchmatt ^ 127 
Musilus,  Joh.  Karl  August, 
Volksmdrchen^  465 
Muspilli,  40,  41 

Mysticism,  5,  104,  109-115,  195, 
328 

Napoleon,  339,  340,  378,  401, 
428,  436,  442,  476,  481,  482, 
490,  495,  501,  506,  516,  526, 

541 

Naumburg,  Sculptures  in  the 
cathedral  of,  90 

Neidhart  von  Reuenthal,  71, 
106 

Newman,  Cardinal,  195 
Nibelungen  legend,  19-21,  26- 
29;  Sigurd  and  Brynhild,  31, 
32;  Hagen,  26-28 
Nibelu7igenlied^  21,  26,  77-82, 
84,  104,  106,  444,  456,  459, 
460,  488,  492,  495,  553;  Sieg- 
fried, 78-82;  Kriemhild,  78- 
82;  Rudiger,  81 
Niclas  von  Wyle,  141 
Nicolai,  Friedrich,  268,  269,  289, 
414,  457 

Nicolaus  I.,  500,  510 
Niembsch  von  Strehlenau,  see 
Lenau 

Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  559,  560 
Normans,  Norsemen,  8,  9,  24, 
25>  41,  83 

Notker  the  German,  49 
Novalis,  pseudon.  for  Friedrich 
von  Hardenberg,  414,  421- 
428,  447,  450,  451,  453,^  486; 
Heinrich  von  Ofte^duigen^ 
414,  421,  425-428;  Hy^nnen  an 
die  Nachtj  422,  423 ; Christen- 


heit  oder  Europa,  423,  450; 
Geistliche  Lieder^  450,  451; 
Fragmente,  421,  422 
Niirnberg,  158,  163 

Oberge,  see  Eilhard  von. 
Odoacer,  chieftain  of  the 
Heruli,  8,  18,  21 
Opitz,  Martin,  179,  180,  182, 
183,  186,  189,  444;  Buch  von 
d.  deutschen  Poeterey^  180,  182, 
183 

Oratorio,  The  religious,  236, 
237 

OrdoRachelis^  1 29 
Orendely  54 

Ortnit  legend,  18;  Ortnity  77 
Ossian,  248,  308,  322,  323,  342, 
555 

Ostrogoths,  8,  10,  ii,  16,  18 
Oswald y St.y  54 

Otfrid  of  Weissenburg,  41-45, 

54 

Otto  I.,  emperor,  36,  37,  45,  49 
Otto  II.,  emperor,  49 
Otto  III.,  emperor,  49 
Otto  IV.,  emperor,  72 
Otto  of  Freising,  65,  66 
Overbeck,  Friedrich,  455 
Ovid,  45 

Pantheism,  no,  196,  197,  363, 
364,  432-434,  448,  521,  522, 
532, 542, 543, 548 

Pascal,  291 

Passion-plays,  129,  130;  Alsfeld 
play,  133,  134;  Benedikt- 

beuren  play,  130 
Pauliis  Diaconus,  12 
Penn,  William,  175 
Percy’s  Reliques  of  Ancient 
Poetry  y 248 

Pestalozzi,  Johann  Heinrich, 
442 

Petrarch,  453 

Pfefferkorn,  142 

Philip  the  Fair,  king  of  France, 

lOI 

Picaresco  novel,  200 
Pietism,  6,  175,  176,  252,  348, 
555 

PilatuSy  56 


INDEX, 


591 


Platen,  August,  Count  von, 
500,  506-510,  514 
Plato,  264,  431 
Pombal,  258 
Pope,  215 

Postl,  Carl,  see  Sealsfield 
Prague,  100 
Priscus,  16 
Procopius,  28 

Protestantism,  116,  140,  160, 

174-176,  188,  235,  287,  434 
Prussia,  172-174,  231,  232,  277, 
278,  282,  429,  440,  441,  482, 
492-495,  497,  518 
Prutz,  Robert,  546 
Pseudo-classicism,  178-187,268- 
270,  274 

Pufendorf,  Samuel  von,  174 
Puschmann,  Adam,  116,  166 

Quevedo,  Francisco  Gomez  de, 
SuenoSy  200 

Quincy,  Thomas  de,  403 

Raabe,  Wilhelm,  554 
Rabanus,  Maurus,  41 
Rabelais,  168,  169 
Rabener,  Gottlieb  Wilhelm,  215 
Rabenschlacht y 77 
Racine,  267,  269,  350 
Rahel,  see  Varnhagen 
Raimund,  Ferdinand,  455 
Ramler,  Karl  Wilhelm,  277 
Ranke,  Leopold,  400 
Rationalism,  6,  141-145,  176- 
178,  216-227,  252,  264,  265, 
267,  348,  555 
Raupach,  Ernst,  498 
Rebhuhn,  Paul,  Susannay  158 
Redentin,  see  Easter  plays. 
Reformation,  The  religious,  5, 
6,  128,  139-171,  175,  402,  434, 
447 

Regensburg,  45.  See  Berthold 
of. 

Reichenau,  45.  See  Hermann 
of. 

Reimarus,  Hermann  Samuel, 
288 

Reinke  de  VoSy  122,  127,  355 
Reinmar  von  Hagenau,  70,  71 
Reinmar  von  Zweter,  106 


Renaissance  architecture,  i68; 
lyrics,  184,  194.  See  Arcadian 
novel.  Drama. 

Renarty  Ro7nan  de,  122 
Reni,  Guido,  194 
Repgow,  see  Eike  von. 
Reuchlin,  Johann,  141,  142,  146 
Reuter,  Christian,  SchelniMjf- 
skyy  204 

Reuter,  Fritz,  496,  554 
Revolution  of  1848,  The,  488, 
540, 546, 547 
Rheinbund,  409,  456 
Richardson,  215,  216,  555 
Richter,  Jean  Paul  Friedrich, 
402—412;  Ufisichtbare  Loge, 
406;  WtiZy  406;  Hesperus  y 409, 
41 1,  412;  Quintus  Eix  hilly 
407-409;  Siebenkds y 406;  Ti- 
tan y 404,  405,  409,  41 1,  412; 
Flegeljahrey  409,  41 1,  412; 

Katzenbergers  Bader eisey  406 
Richter,  Ludwig,  456 
Riemer,  Friedrich  Wilhelm, 

.531 

Rist,  Johann,  190 
Robert,  king  of  France,  52 
Robinsonadeny  215 
Rococo  architecture,  186 
Rogier  van  der  Weyde,  113 
Rolandsliedy  56-58;  Chanson  de 
Roland y 56 

Rollenhagen,  Georg,  Erosck’- 
meuselery  163 

Romances,  Popular  Prose,  127, 
461-463 

Romanticism,  215,  247,  262,301, 
401-547 
Ronsard,  183 

Rosamond,  wife  of  Alboin,  13 
Rosegger,  Peter,  554 
Rosengarteny  77 
Rosenpliit,  Hans,  138 
Rossbach,  Battle  of,  227 
Rosvitha  of  Gandersheim,  49- 
52;  Dulcitiusy  50;  Abraham, 
51;  Callimachus y 51 
Rot  her  y Konigy  55 
Rousseau,  112,  229,  303,  308,  319, 
332,  359.  368,  395,  415,  416, 
424,  43S,  555 
Rubianus,  see  Crotus. 


592 


INDEX. 


Riickert,  Friedrich,  492,  499, 
500,  506 

Rudiger,  see  Nibelungenlied. 
Rudolf  von  Ems,  Der  gut e Ger- 
hard^ 106 

Rudolf  of  Habsburg,  emperor, 
100 

Ruge,  Arnold,  548 
Ruodlieb^  52,  54 
Ruskin,  448 

Sachs,  Hans,  163-166,  453;  S. 
Peter  7nit  d.  Geiss,  163;  Dieun- 
gleichen  Kinder  Eve^  164,  165; 
his  self-characterization,  166 
Sachsenspiegel,  see  Eike  von 
Repgow. 

Salman  und  Morolf^  54 
Salzmann,  Ch.  G.  Carl  von 
Carlsbergy  305 
Saxon  dynasty,  34,  36 
Schack,  Friedrich  von,  554 
Scheffel,  Josef  Victor,  401,  456, 
554 

Scheffler,  Johann,  see  Angelas 
Silesius. 

Scheldt,  Caspar,  Grobianus,  162 
Schelling,  Caroline,  421,  452 
Schelling,  Friedr.  Wilh.  Josef, 
349,  403,  421,  422,  542 
Schelrnuffsky ^ see  Reuter. 
Schenkendorf,  Max  von,  492 
Schernberg,  Th.,  see  Jutta. 
Schill,  Ferdinand  von,  456,  480 
Schiller,  Friedrich,  6,  iii,  228, 
263,  266,  305,  318,  335,  336, 
338-341,  343-350,  359»  361, 

362,  368-398,  399,  410,  412- 
415,  423,  424,  429,  438,  44H 
457,  467,  468,  491,  507,  548, 
549,  559;  Die  Rduber,  338-340, 
343,  344,  34^,  555;  Fiesco,  338, 
339,  344,  34^;  Kabale  und 

Liebe,  338,  344-346;  Don  Car- 
los^ 347;  Abfall  der  Nieder- 
lande,  379;  Die  Goiter  Grie- 
chenlandsy  415;  Die  KUnstler^ 
368,  369,  377,  438;  Dreissig- 
jdhr.  Krieg^  379;  Ueber  Anmut 
U7td  IVtirde,  370,  371;  Aesthe- 
tische  Erziehung  des  Men- 
scheUj  350,  371,  372;  Naive 


und  sentimentalische  Dich^ 
tung,  372,  373;  Das  Ideal  und 
das  Leben^  376,  377;  Der  Spa- 
ziergang,  361,  377,  378;  Xe- 
nien,  414;  Ballads^  350,  374, 
375;  Wallenstein,  266,  350, 
379-384,  412,  413;  Maria 

Stuart,  379,  385-3^9; 
frau  von  Orleans,  379,  389- 
393;  Braut  von  Messina,  379, 
385,  393 » 394;  Wilhelm  Tell, 
350,  379,  394-397,  412.— Sch. 
on  Klopstock,  234,  235;  on 
Burger,  311 

Schlegel,  August  Wilhelm,  447; 
transl.  of  Shakspere,  456,  457; 
Vorlesungen  iiber  schone  Litter - 
atur  u,  Kunst,  459,  460;  Vor- 
lesungen iiber  dramatische  LiU 
teratur  u.  Kunst,  456 
Schlegel,  Caroline,  see  Schell- 
ing, Caroline. 

Schlegel,  Dorothea,  421 
Schlegel,  Friedrich,  447,  486, 
500;  Lucinde,  414,  418-421, 
430,  501 ; Sprache  u.  Weiskeit 
der  Indier,  456,  457 
Schleiermacher,  Friedrich,  349, 
400,  429-434,  447,  448,  450,467, 
482,  491,  542;  Reden  iiber  die 
Religion,  Monologen, 

430,  431 

Schleswig  cathedral,  135 
Schnabel,  Joh.  Gottfried,  Insel 
Felsenburg , 215 

Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  500-502 
Schubart,  Christian  Friedrich 
Daniel,  304,  314;  Fiirsten- 

gruft,  307 

Schubert,  Franz,  455 
Schupp,  Balthasar,  Freund  in 
der  Noth,  203 
Schwab,  Gustav,  486,  487 
Schwind,  Moritz  von,  456 
Scott,  Walter,  355 
Sealsfield,  Charles,  pseudon. 

for  Carl  Postl,  496 
Sentimentalism,  6,  216-227,  303, 
348,  372,  373,  555 
Seume,  Johann  Gottfried,  437 
Seuse,  see  Suso. 

Shakspere,  207,  214,  268,  269, 


INDEX. 


593 


274-276,  373,  453,  456,  457, 
469;  Lessing  on  S.,  268,  269, 
276;  Herder  on  S.,  324;  trans- 
lations of  S.,  456,  457 
Shrovetide  plays,  138,  164-166 
Siegfried,  19,  20,  26-28,  78-82, 
128.  See  Nibelu7igenlied, 
Sigurd,  see  Nibelungen  legend. 
Socialism,  434,  436,  439,  440, 
448,  551-553 
Sophocles,  267 

Spanish  influence  on  German 
literature  of  the  17th  century, 
200;  the  Spanish  insurrection 
against  Napoleon,  476 
Spee,  Friedrich,  193,  194 
Spencer,  Herbert,  400 
Spener,  Philipp  Jacob,  175,  176, 
188,  246 

Spielhagen,  Friedrich,  554 
Spiehnannsdichtung  ^ see  Glee- 
men. 

Spinoza,  177,  195,  287,  362,  432, 
521 

Sprachgesellschaften^  180 
Stael,  Mme.  de,  340,  389,  419 
Stainhdwel,  Heinrich,  141 
Steele,  278 

Steffens,  Henrich,  492 
Stein,  Frau  von,  351,  362 
Stein,  Freih.  von,  33?  440,  482 
Stolberg,  Christian,  Count  von, 
303,  308 

Stolberg,  Friedrich  Leopold, 
Count  von,  303,  308 
Storm,  Theodor,  554 
Storm-and-Stress  movement,  6, 
215,  279,  286,  301-318,  336-348, 
35L  360,  396,  413,  555 
Strassburg,  104;  S.  cathedral, 
445.  See  Gottfried  von  S., 
Closener,  Twinger. 

Strauss,  David  Friedrich,  400, 

486,  545 

Strieker,  Der,  Der P faff e Amis ^ 
123, 128 

Sudermann,  Hermann,  560,  565, 
570-572,  575-579 
Suso  (Seuse),  Heinrich,  110-113 
Swift,  215 

Tacitus,  9,  12 


Tagelied^  70 

Tannhauser,  Der,  71,  72 
Tatianus,  38 

Tauler,  Johann,  no,  113-115, 
559 

Tegernsee,  52,  69 
Teniers,  471 

Territorial  princes,  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  102,  103 
Theoderic  the  Great,  8,  10,  ii, 
18,21.  Dietrich  von  Bern. 
Theologia  deutsch^  115 
Theophano,  wife  of  emperor 
Otto  IL,  49 
Theophilus  ^ 138 
Thietmar  of  Merseburg,  49 
Thirty  Years’  War,  5,  170,  172, 
173, 191,  199,  202-206,  441,  444 
Thomas  of  Aquino,  loi 
Thomas  von  Britanje,  97 
Thomas  of  Kempen,  Imitatio 
Christie  115 

Thomasin  von  Zirclaria,  Wel- 
scher  Gast,  106 
Thomasius,  Christian,  176 
Thomson’s  Seasons^  215 
Thorwaldsen,  Bertel,  336 
Thuringians,  Thuringia,  8,  72 
Tieck,  Ludwig,  413-418,  447, 
448,  451-454,^  457-459.  465, 
486,  487;  Willuun  Lovell,  414- 
418;  Volksmdrcken,  451,  453, 
454,  465;  St e?'n balds  Wander- 
ungen,  452;  Phantasieen  uber 
die  Kunst,  448;  Romantische 
Dichtungen,  452,  454;  Geno- 
veva,  452,  4531  Minnelieder, 
458,  459;  Kaiser  Octavianus, 
452,  453:  Phantasus,  451,  453, 

454. 457. 458 

Timomachus,  274 
Tolstoi,  555 

Trier,  45.  Easter  plays,  A/iof- 
rienklage. 

Trimberg,  see  Hugo  of. 

Tristan  legend,  97,  128 
Troubadour  poetry,  69,  118 
Troyes,  see  Chrestien  de. 
Turheim,  see  Ulrich  von. 
Turner,  William,  404 
Twinger,  Jacob,  von  Kdnigs- 
hofen,  104 


594 


INDEX. 


Uhland,  Ludwig,  247,  456,  467, 
468,  485-490 
Umias,  Wulfila,  ii 
Ulm,  Capitulation  of,  397 
Ulrich  von  Lichtenstein,  71, 
III,  112 

Ulrich  von  Tiirheim,  97 
Ulrich  von  Zatzikhoven,  Lan- 
zelety  88 

Vandals,  7,  10,  19,  28 
Varnhagen,  Rahel,  421 
Veldeke,  see  Heinrich  von. 
Vergil,  271,  272 

Vienna,  72,  497  ; Congress  of, 
540.  See  Easter  plays,  Gene- 
sis. 

Virginal^  77 

Virgins,  The  Wise  and  the  Fool- 
ish, 138 

Vischer,  Peter,  128 
Visigoths,  7,  8,  II 
Vogelweide,  see  Walther  von 
der. 

Volksbiicher,  see  Romances. 
Volksepos,  see  Epic  poetry. 
Volkslied,  see  Lyrics. 

Voltaire,  142,  176,  256,  267,  530 
Voss,  Johann  Heinrich,  303, 
307,  314,  315,  360;  trsl.  of 
Odyssey,  360 

Wackenroder,  Heinrich  Wil- 
helm, 447-449 

Wagner,  Heinrich  Leopold, "304; 

Kinder morderin,  305 
Wagner,  Richard,  247,  267,  400, 
401,  404,  456,  548-553 
Waldis,  Burkard,  Der  verlorne 
Sohn,  158;  Esopus,  163 
Walthari  legend,  19 
Waltharius  manu  fortis  22—24, 
:-7,  77 

Walther  von  der  Vogelweide, 
4,  70,  72-76,  88,  104,  106,  190, 
199,  488 

Wate,  see  Gudrun  legend. 
Weber,  Karl  Maria  von,  455 
Weckherlin,  Rudolf,  180 
Weimar,  The  intellectual  at- 
mosphere of,  333,  334,  349, 
350 


Weise,  Christian,  207,  235  ; 

Bdurischer  Machiavellus , 208- 
213;  Ueberjlussige  Gedanken, 
208;  Ertznarren,  209. 

Weisse,  Christian  Felix,  268. 
Weissenburg,  see  Otfrid  of. 
Werner,  Zacharias,  455,  486. 
Wernher,  der  gartensere,  Meier 
Helmbrecht,  123,  124,  128 
Wernher,  the  priest,  Marien- 
lie  der,  56 

Wessobrunner  Gebet,  40 
Whitman,  Walt,  522 
Wickram,  J5rg,  Rollwagenbuch- 
lin,  163 

Widukind  of  Corvey,  49 
Wieland,  Christoph  Martin, 
222,  251-265,  282,  287,  303, 
45b,  457,  465;  translation  of 
Shakspere,  456,  457;  Agathon, 
252-261  (Lessing  on  Agathon, 
253),  359,  415;  Musarion,  262; 
Der  goldene  Spiegel,  251;  Der 
teutsche  Merkur,  263;  Die 
Abderiten,  261;  Geron  der 
Adelich,  262;  Oberon,  262,  263; 
Ueber  d.  Gebr.  d.  Ver^iunft 
in  Glaubenssachen,  264,  265; 
Aristipp,  264 

Wiidenbruch,  Ernst  von,  560- 

565 

Wilhelm  of  Kdln,  Master,  125 
Willem,  Roman  van  den  Vos 
Reinaerde,  122 

William  L,  emperor,  483,  546, 

554 

Willibrord,  missionary,  ii 
Williram  of  Ebersberg,  Song  of 
Solomon,  49 

Winckelmann,  Johann  Joachim, 
271,  272,  319,  360,  399 
Winifred  (St.  Boniface),  ii 
Wirnt  von  Grafenberg,  Wiga- 
lois,  87 
Wisma;  135 

Wochenschriften,  see  Moralische 
W. 

Wolf,  Friedrich  August,  459 
Wolfdietrich  legend,  19,  29 
Wolfdietrich,  77 
Wolff,  Christian,  176,  184, 

256 


INDEX, 


595 


Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  5,  6, 
86,  88,  89,92-96,  104,  106,  506; 
Parzivaly  86,  89,  93-96,  204, 
355,  424,  427;  Titurel  86; 
Willehalm^  96 
Wulfila,  see  Ulfilas. 

Wunderhorn^  Des  Knaben^  460, 
461 

Wycliffe,  102 
Wyle,  see  Niclas  von. 

Young,  252 


Young  Germany^  497,  521,  545 
Zachari^,  Friedrich  Wilhelm, 

215 

Zatzikhoven,  see  Ulrich  von. 
Zelter,  Karl  Friedrich,  531 
Zesen,  Adriatische 

Rosamund^  185 

Ziegler,  Heinrich  Anshelm  von, 
Asiatische  Banise^  185 
Zinzendorf,  Count,  193 
Zweter,  see  Reinmar  von. 


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